


my love will clothe your bones

by freefallvertigo



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Blind Date, Discussions of Addiction, F/F, Fashion Designer!Yaz, First Kiss, Fluff, Happy Ending, References to Depression, a dash of angst, nb!thirteen, they both just need a hand to hold, they're soulmates ur honour
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-12
Updated: 2021-02-18
Packaged: 2021-03-18 20:08:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 28,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29374383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freefallvertigo/pseuds/freefallvertigo
Summary: “Hey, Yaz,” whispers Jonah. Still whispering. Why are they whispering? “Can I ask you a question?”“‘Course,” whispers Yaz. She’s at it, too.“Do you believe in love at first sight?”Yaz has been living in New York for a month, but she's yet to find her place in the lonely city. When she ends up on a blind date with Jonah Smith, a writer who's as far away from home as she is, it looks like that could all be about to change. They're colourful, charismatic, and a little bit elusive—and they might be exactly what Yaz needs.As Yaz and Jonah traipse through the urban jungle together, leaving a trail of paint and petals in their wake, confessions will be heard, questions will be answered, and two cold hands will seek one another out against impossible odds.
Relationships: Thirteenth Doctor/Yasmin Khan
Comments: 21
Kudos: 72





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [timelxrd](https://archiveofourown.org/users/timelxrd/gifts).



> happy 6 days before ur birthday robin ur ok i guess :/
> 
> also i based this fic in nyc bc sheffield is just not romantic at all trust me bUT i've only been to new york one time and it was a flying visit so if u notice me taking liberties and making shit up no u didn't x
> 
> p.s. all parts are written n i'll be posting every few days! enjoy!

The lonely city. 

Yaz doesn’t remember where she first heard it, but she finds it to be a fitting epithet for the place she now calls home. Or, she would call it home, if it felt any closer to one. 

Four weeks gone and New York is still a stranger to her. Too many people, all of them faceless. Too many buildings, all of them identical. They’re not, really. Not even slightly. Only, Yaz hasn’t yet bothered to take the time to acquaint herself with them. So she just sees grey. 

January’s misery has leached her thirst for adventure; in its stead, ice pumps through her veins. It numbs her. It slows her down. She thaws only in her apartment, but never completely (those long, soot-dark nights are forever sniffing out the gaps in her drapes and the slats between her curtains, that they might ooze through them and pool onto her floor boards. They stick to the soles of her feet like tar. Unaware, Yaz treads them through every empty room, convinced they’re following her—those awful nights and their unbearable shadows. She doesn’t think to wonder if she might be the one letting them in. She lights more candles instead). 

Aside from that, her life is work. And work is good. Work is booming. Work is the reason she moved way across the pond and dumped herself in the cold heart of a cold city during the coldest month of the year. But, if anybody asks, she isn’t bitter about it. 

“ _Yeah, right_ ,” Ryan scoffs through the phone. “ _Mate, if you were really enjoying yourself up there, you wouldn’t be belling me every single night just for something to do. You’d be out having fun. Seeing the sights. Waving to Lady Liberty and flipping off the Trump tower.”_

“I’ve seen _some_ of the sights,” Yaz argues, absently scooting aside hangers on a thrift store clearance rack without paying much mind to the clothes hanging from them. She didn’t come here to shop—just to kill some time. “I saw a huge rat the other day when I were takin’ out my rubbish. Shoulda seen it, it were like the size of a cat. Defo don’t get ‘em like that in Sheffield.”

“ _T_ _hat is so far from what I meant and you know it_.”

Yaz peels away from the rack with a sigh. “Yeah, look, I know what you meant. I’ve just been busy, Ryan. You should see what my workload looks like these days, and the amount of bloody deadlines I have to keep to. Especially with this show comin’ up. I’ve got a lot of people relyin’ on me. A lot of eyes watchin’ everythin’ I do. It’s insane.”

“ _Wait, you’re not flaking on today though, are you? ‘Cause it’s a bit last minute. They’re probably already—“_

“Relax, I’m not flaking.”

“ _Good, ‘cause you bloody need this. Human interaction, mate. Face to face. It’s good for your health.”_

Yaz leans against the closest solid surface without bothering to gauge what it is. Across the shop, through the glass facade, shoppers and tourists are out in full swing: a writhing mass snaking through the veins of the city. The idea of going back out there and contending with the current makes her stomach revolt with unease. 

It’s one of the first times she’s left her apartment except for work and essentials in a month, and she only agreed to it to sate Ryan’s constant concerns for her well-being (which, to be fair, are all pretty valid. Three thousand miles away and he still knows when his best friend is feeling low).

“You’ve still not even told me anythin’ about ‘em, though,” Yaz points out. “Nothin’ except that they’re a family friend.”

“ _Kind of the whole point, Yaz. It’s a_ blind _date. I know you’ve been dipping out of the social scene lately, but you do remember what one of those is, don’t you_?”

“Don’t be a nob,” Yaz mutters. 

Ryan laughs. “ _Look, you know their name. That’s more than enough to be getting on with._ ”

That’s right, she knows their name.

Jonah. 

Yaz thinks it’s a nice name, likes the way it rolls off the tongue, but it doesn’t give much away. 

“Could at least tell me what they look like? The colour of their hair? Eyes? Height? How am I supposed to know who I’m lookin’ for when I get there?”

“ _You’ll just know_.”

“Oh, brilliant. Cheers, Ryan.”

“ _Yeah, you’ll be thanking me when you finally get some action for the first time in god knows how long though, won’t you_?”

“Ryan,” cringes Yaz. 

Before she has a chance to properly chew him out for his overfamiliarity, the surface she’s leaning all her weight on turns to thin air. Her heart lurches, she loses balance; her flailing hands clutch desperately at nothing. She screws her eyes shut and braces herself for impact. 

Impact is sooner, and softer, than she anticipates. 

Warily, Yaz peels one eye open. 

There’s a face peering down at her—a very agreeable face, Yaz notes in passing. A faintly amused smile tugs at the corners of their soft pink lips, and there’s an innate kindness to it which steeps their pale complexion in warmth (as with their eyes; they glint golden at her through the clear lenses of their horn rimmed glasses). 

Falling from beneath a wool beanie, locks of soft blonde hair frame a sharp jaw and sharper cheekbones, which Yaz can’t help but both envy and admire. 

Like that, a scattering of forgotten chrysalises hanging from Yaz’s ribs break open. New life emerges; flutters its technicolour wings and takes flight. 

“Hiya,” comes the cheery voice of the perfect stranger holding Yaz in their arms. “Have a nice trip?”

Yaz’s face flushes with colour. 

“I’m so sorry,” she apologises hastily, pulling herself up by the frame of the door (door. She was leaning against a _door_ ) and holding her phone to her ear. “Sorry, Ryan. Gotta go. Call you later.”

“ _Not if you get luck—“_

Yaz hangs up and pockets her phone. The stranger is still standing in the doorway to the small, wooden changing room cubicle they appeared from. They’re watching Yaz with a curious tilt of their head.

“Again, I’m really sorry. I didn’t realise what I were leanin’ against,” Yaz admits, burying her hands into the pockets of her faux-fur coat. “Thanks for catchin’ me, though.”

They frown at Yaz. “Your accent—you’re from home?”

For the first time, Yaz picks up on the undeniable Yorkshire lilt to their voice. 

“Um. Yeah. Sheffield born and bred,” she reveals, much of her focus suddenly diverted by their outfit. 

For the most part, it’s nothing outlandish. From the belt loops of black skinny jeans, which graze the hind labels of yellow-laced Doc Martens, hangs a thick chain embellished with silver charms: a book, a plane, the number thirteen, a dog, and a few others Yaz can’t make out. They’re also wearing a blue, sherpa-lined denim jacket, which is totally covered with patches. 

Yaz almost misses the non-binary flag ironed onto their breast, easy as it would be to overlook it for the waving alien, or the heart-shaped planet Earth, or the ‘Can I pet your dog?’ patch on their right shoulder—to list a few. Yaz’s personal favourite detail, though, is the embroidery on their back. She notices it in the changing room mirror behind them: a huge sunflower, spanning from the bottom of the jacket to just beneath the collar. 

Everything about them screams effortlessly trendy. 

Almost. 

Upon following Yaz’s intrigued gaze, they glance down at their attire and purse their lips.

“Too weird?” they ask, pinching the fabric of their sweater between their fingers. It must be something they’ve picked up in the shop—a clearly vintage, oversized jumper with the smiling, yellow face of a golden retriever embroidered onto the chest. For reasons Yaz can’t begin to hazard, the phrase, ‘World’s Greatest Grandpa’ has been sewn beneath the dog’s lolling tongue. 

“Well, I mean, that really depends on your usual threshold for weirdness,” Yaz responds by way of avoiding the question. 

What she doesn’t say is that she reckons they’re probably the only person in the universe who can pull it off. 

“It’s for a date,” they wince. “I spilled coffee all over the shirt I were gonna wear—proper ace shirt. My absolute fave. Wanted to look my best, ‘cause, well, first impressions count, don’t they? But I were so distracted thinkin’ about the date that I walked right into someone carryin’ a tray full of coffees. Most of it went down them, to be fair. They weren’t best pleased. But my shirt got absolutely ruined, and I don’t have time to go home and grab another one, ‘cause I’m s’posed to be meetin’ ‘em soon, and I were gonna buy flowers, but now I’m not gonna have time, and I can’t make my mind up about this jumper, ‘cause what if they don’t like puppies? Which would be insane. Who doesn’t like puppies? That’s a huge red flag. Maybe I should wear the jumper just to gauge their stance on dogs. I’d rather know from the get go, to be honest. Can’t get too attached to a dog-hater. What d’you think?”

Yaz blinks. “Um—“

“Whereas you look like you’ve just stepped right off the catwalk!” they blunder on without waiting for a reply, gesturing helplessly at Yaz’s outfit. “Look at you, in your silky, knee-length fur coat and your cool white trainers and—are those slacks tailored? And that _shirt_. Looks new. Is it new?”

“Actually—“

“Can you help me?” they plead, clasping their hands together. “I’m hopeless. Properly hopeless. Pretend it’s you. Pretend I’m goin’ on a date with you. Would you want me to show up like this or would you take one look at me and turn around? Be honest. I can take it. Cross my heart.”

The butterflies behind Yaz’s ribs stir again. She thinks about her own date, and briefly entertains how she _would_ feel if this were the person Ryan set her up with. 

She can’t imagine being disappointed. 

Still, Yaz remarks, not everyone is as endeared to the bizarre as she; she can’t, in good faith, encourage them to wear such an abomination to a first date. She’d only feel bad about it all day. 

“Wait here,” she says. 

It only takes a few minutes of perusing the racks in the store for Yaz to find an appropriate alternative; all the while, their new acquaintance shadows them anxiously, wringing their hands behind their back and chewing their bottom lip. 

“What size are you?” asks Yaz, checking the label. 

“Small in men’s.”

“Perfect.” Turning around, she presents them with a plain, yellow hoodie. “Try this.”

They regard the garment as if Yaz were holding up her middle finger. “Um. But it’s just—it’s just a hoodie. There aren’t even any dogs on it.”

Rolling her eyes, Yaz rests her hand on their shoulder—not missing the way they turn and gawk openly at it for several seconds—and steers them back toward the changing room. 

“Trust me, I do this for a livin’,” says Yaz.

“You work here?”

“I’m a fashion designer.”

Their jaw falls open and they stop before the changing room door, eyeing Yaz from head to toe as if in a new light. 

“Well, no wonder y’look so good.”

The tips of Yaz’s ears begin to burn; she wishes she’d hid them behind her hair rather than keep it in a bun. 

But if they notice the darkening of her skin, they opt not to comment. Rather, they tear off their denim jacket, thrust it into Yaz’s hands, and exchange it for the hoodie. They don’t bother closing the changing room door. 

“How’s that for fate, eh?” they muse, plucking the beanie from their ruffled hair and hooking it on the door. When they yank the vintage sweater off by the back of its collar, their undershirt rides up. Yaz tries not to stare at their navel or the band of their boxers. 

“Fate?” she asks hoarsely, before clearing her throat. She could do with a glass of water. 

“Yeah. Runnin’ into a fashion designer when I’ve a fashion emergency on my hands. Know what that tells me? The universe really, really wants this date to go well.” They pull the hoodie down over their body and smooth down any creases in the mirror. Their countenance grows thoughtful. “But it’s a bit odd, too.”

Yaz hands them their jacket. “What’s odd?”

“The universe sendin’ me a really pretty fashion designer right before my date. Not very fair, is it?”

Brows lifting, Yaz fails to catch their eye in the mirror; they’re too concerned with wrestling the hood out from under their jacket and fixing the beanie back on their head. 

“Y’know, I’m actually goin’ on a date, too,” Yaz divulges. 

At that, they turn to face her. There’s a look in their eye that Yaz can’t place, and they’re standing close enough that their cologne—subtle and laced with warm spices—intoxicates her just a little. It’s a feeling which both perplexes and titillates Yaz. 

Ryan was right about one thing: she must be _starving_ for human interaction. 

“Well,” they begin, “then that’s double not fair, isn’t it?”

Yaz doesn’t know what to say to that, and she doesn’t know how to feel about the way they’re studying her face so closely, so she drops her gaze and nods at their outfit. 

“How d’you like it, then?” she asks. “Yellow and black are always a decent combo. Plus, it goes with your laces. And the sunflower on your back.”

“Does it bring out my eyes, too?” 

When Yaz lifts her gaze, she divines an unfurling roguery corrupting their features (though they’re no less lovely for it). They wink at her. Yaz pretends not to be affected. 

“Should you really be stood here flirtin’ with other people when you’ve a date to get to?” she teases. 

Their face falls. 

“No,” they mumble, brows drifting inward. “No, you’re right. That’s awful of me, isn’t it? For all I know, the last great love of my life is already waitin’ out there for me. Could be an early bird, couldn’t they? I don’t know. I don’t know a thing about ‘em. _Yet_. And here I am, dismissin’ ‘em for the first pretty human I see. Well. No. Not the first, just the prettiest. Oh—sorry. Flirtin’ again. Can’t help it sometimes. The words just pour out of me faster than I can stop ‘em.”

“Yeah, I’m gettin’ that,” laughs Yaz. She isn’t complaining. “For what it’s worth, I think they’d be an idiot not to fall in love with you on the spot.”

They beam broadly at her, all perfect teeth and meekly hunched shoulders. 

“It’s worth a lot, actually.”

Yaz can’t help but smile back; it only wavers when she notices that their glasses are sitting wonky atop their nose. Unthinking, she steps forward to readjust them, slipping a finger beneath the fabric of their beanie to sit the arm of their glasses on their ear properly. Are their ears warm because of the beanie, or is there another reason altogether? Yaz can’t say, but she doesn’t think they breathe the whole time. 

She steps back. “Sorry. Didn’t think you’d wanna show up with wonky glasses.”

“No, yeah. ‘Course not. Totally.” They pause and pull their bottom lip between their teeth. “Thank you. For everythin’.”

Catching Yaz entirely off guard, they swoop forward to envelop her in a grateful embrace which is as tight as it is fleeting. No sooner does Yaz think to reciprocate than they’re already withdrawing, their cheeks a touch pinker than they were a moment ago. 

“Anyway…” They push their glasses further up their nose and take a step back. “Better go pay for this. Got a hot date to get to.”

“Yeah, I better go, too,” says Yaz, ignoring the remorse weighing heavy on her chest as she begins to inch towards the exit. “Good luck, though.”

“And you.”

“Try to let ‘em get a word in edgewise, yeah?”

They duck their head and laugh. “Yeah. Good advice.”

“And bin ‘em if they’re a dog hater.”

“Don’t need to tell me twice.”

With nothing else to be said, Yaz flashes a brief wave and they flash one back. A hesitant look passes between them, and Yaz thinks they might be thinking the same thing as she is: that this might have been something else under different circumstances, did they not each have their own way to go. 

Then again, she might just be seeing what she wants to see. 

Yaz leaves. 

It isn’t until she’s halfway down the street, flanked on all sides by a rushing river of bodies and traffic, that she realises she never got their name. 

* * *

Their agreed rendezvous, arranged through Ryan, is a small café a stone’s throw from Central Park. Like much of this vast city, Yaz isn’t familiar with it. She relies on her phone’s maps to guide the way, but still gets turned around a few times and ends up running late. 

In all honesty, the closer she draws, the more she drags her feet. The cold cuts even through her leather gloves and warm coat, and she longs for the central heating of her apartment; for her plush sofa, cosy blankets, and the latest trashy _Netflix_ show she’s been binge watching. That, or her desk and sketchbook. A piping mug of British tea. Pens and brushes and paint—and her muse in abundance. 

She doesn’t expect much from the date. While Ryan only has the kindest of intentions, his taste has always been questionable at best (hence why he’s currently dating her sister). 

Still, she made a promise.

_And anyway,_ she thinks, _it’s just an hour. One hour—and then I can make my excuses, go back to my apartment, and tell him I tried._

When her phone announces her arrival, Yaz lifts her eyes from the sidewalk for the first time in ten minutes. Across the road to her right, over the top of a long line of yellow cabs, is the park. A tall metal gate and a sparse row of trees inhibit her view of it. 

But, coming up on her left, there’s a mug-shaped sign hanging from the brick exterior of a generic looking coffee shop. Yaz comes to an abrupt stop. 

Sitting at one of the outdoor tables, scribbling maniacally in a compact, tattered notebook with one leg propped up on the opposite chair, is the very same stranger she’d helped dress in the thrift shop. 

_Surely not._

Oblivious to Yaz’s arrival, they put their pen down and flex out their writing hand with a grimace. They’ve since pulled on a pair of fingerless gloves; their bright pink fingertips are stained with ink already. Yaz wonders what they’re writing.

It isn’t until they reach for their to-go coffee cup and take a sip that their eyes finally find Yaz’s over the rim. They freeze. A second passes. They swallow their mouthful. 

Remembering her feet (and realising that she’s just been caught staring), Yaz closes the remaining distance between them. 

“Fancy meetin’ you here,” she quips, and then instantly regrets it. Only a month and New York is already turning her into a walking cliché. 

Their bemusement doesn’t subside until Yaz is hardly a pace away. When it does, they snap their book shut, slip it into their pocket, and spring to their feet. In their haste, they almost knock over the table and reflexively reach out to still it before they end up wearing their coffee. Again. 

“Um.” They glance toward the table. Finding it to be steady, they straighten up and take a step toward Yaz. “Hi. Again. Did you—no offence, but are you stalkin’ me? Don’t get me wrong, I’m very flattered, but I thought I’d made it especially clear that I’m goin’ on a date. Mind you, they are runnin’ a tad late, but I’m sure there’s a good reason for it. Maybe they stopped to pet a really cute dog. Or help an old lady cross the street. Or tie their laces. Can’t hold that against ‘em, can I? My laces are always comin’ undone.”

Yaz presses her lips to suppress a laugh. “I don’t suppose your name’s Jonah, is it?”

They open and then close their mouth. Brows sink and gears turn—slowly, slowly, slowly. Yaz waits patiently for realisation to dawn. 

“Yaz?” they eventually click on. 

“Bingo.”

“No _way_ ,” they drawl, raking their wide eyes over Yaz. “I don’t believe it. What are the odds of that? Are you sure?”

“Sure of my own name?” Yaz pretends to consider. “Come to think of it, it’s been a while since I last referred to my birth certificate. Maybe I’m mistaken.”

An untempered grin lights up Jonah’s face. “Sarcasm! Oh, I miss sarcasm. It’s just so _English_. Americans hate it, don’t they? They always give you such a weird look. I’ve had to learn to censor myself a bit around ‘em. Well, I’ve not learned yet. I do try. Well, sometimes I do. Point is—wait, what was my point?”

“I don’t think you had one, mate.”

“No, yes, I did. My point, Yaz, is that I’m very happy to officially meet you.” Jonah sticks out their hand. 

Yaz takes it and gives it an uncertain shake. It’s been a while, but she doesn’t remember the last time she started a date with a handshake. Maybe Jonah’s trying to tell her something. 

“You’re not disappointed that it’s me?” she frets. 

“C’mon, Yaz. After my earlier display, I think we both know I’m not.” An easy smile finds purchase on their lips, quelling Yaz’s concerns without a lick of effort. Then they start as if they’ve just been poked with a cattle prod and swipe a second coffee cup from the table. “Almost forgot! I got you a drink. Ryan told me your usual. He’s great, isn’t he? Soon as he told me there were a woman I had to meet, I knew I were in for somethin’ special. He’s got great taste.”

Looking at Jonah now, Yaz finds herself disregarding her doubts and wholeheartedly agreeing. She thanks them for the coffee and takes it from their hands. After picking up their own, alongside a small backpack Yaz hadn’t noticed propped against their chair, they nod towards the park. 

“Fancy a walk, then?” they propose, slinging the backpack over their shoulder. “Unless—wait, _you’re_ not disappointed, are you? I’ll be honest, I had a hard time readin’ you back there in the shop. You don’t half keep your cards close to your chest. Unlike me. Spillin’ em everywhere. Ever wanna make a quick quid, just challenge me to a game of poker. I’ve a feelin’ you’re good at it. But I’d _thrash_ you at snap. Oh, believe me, I’m brutal.”

“Remember what I sad about lettin’ your date get a word in?” jokes Yaz. She starts towards the zebra crossing and Jonah follows. 

“Sorry, I know. But you’re not, right? Disappointed?”

“No, Jonah. I’m not.”

Jonah’s heartened grin coincides with a parting in the clouds. The city brightens beneath an opening of arctic blue sky and pale sunlight, but Yaz is inclined to credit it to their smile. 

Beyond the gates, Central Park glitters with frost. The trees are bare and still as death, and silver-lined leaves carpet their path. In spite of the temperature, almost every bench is occupied. Swathes of people meander about the park: businessmen taking lunch, joggers braving the biting chill, parents pushing strollers, couples holding hands, and lots of dog walkers. 

Jonah doesn’t even try to resist their urge to pet every dog they pass, nor do they exhibit any qualms about striking up breezy conversations with their owners—mostly about their own dog, whom they claim to already miss sorely after only a couple of hours apart. 

And, god, can they talk. They talk so much Yaz puzzles over how they don’t run out of words, or air, or excitement. 

Yaz finds it hard to mind.

Their bubbly disposition isn’t just charming, it’s contagious. Her steps feel lighter when she walks beside Jonah, her laugh is freer when it harmonises with theirs, and her heart beats a touch softer than it has for a while. 

They end up finding a relatively smooth boulder at the top of a short hill to sit down on, which overlooks the path below and grants them a threadbare semblance of privacy behind a scattering of naked trees. 

Yaz and Jonah are swapping stories from home; reminiscing about school (it turns out they went to the same high school, only Jonah left a couple of years before Yaz started), the popular hangout spots they each used to frequent growing up, and the pub that was infamous for serving just about anybody with a fake ID. Yaz is shocked at how many of the same places they visited; wonders if they ever crossed paths before—two ships passing in the night. But then, she’s sure she would have noticed someone like Jonah. Noticed and not soon forgotten. 

“Crazy that we’d meet now instead of back then, isn’t it?” muses Jonah, yanking tufts of grass from the earth and sprinkling them on Yaz’s shoes. “Amount of times we probably just missed each other. It’s a strange old world.”

Leaning back on her palms, Yaz watches a little girl in a bright yellow mac run ahead of her parents on the walkway beneath them, laughing in the way only children laugh—with abandon. The giddy music she makes carries like a breeze through the trees and the frozen grass. 

“I think it’s kinda cool,” she says. “The idea that we spent so long only a few miles apart, revolving around each other without ever meeting, until we both just… catapulted out of orbit.”

“And crash landed on the same planet,” Jonah finishes. They laugh so quietly that Yaz might’ve missed it if not for the way it crystallises in the cold air. 

“What’s funny?”

Jonah dusts off their hands and sits back. “You ever watch E.T.?”

“Yeah,” frowns Yaz. “Why?”

“Well, it’s kinda felt a bit like I’m an alien out here all these years. New culture. New life. Strange faces. Don’t get me wrong, I like it, but there are times when you can’t help but miss the world you came from. When you can’t help but miss home.” They sweep their eyes across Yaz. “Now, it’s kinda like home came to me. A little slice of it. It’s just nice, that’s all.”

“Would’ve been a much different movie if E.T. phoned home and home sent a girl instead of a spaceship,” remarks Yaz. 

“True, but maybe E.T. wouldn’t have wanted to leave so much if he had a pretty alien on his arm.”

“Didn’t he almost die?”

“You’re kinda missin’ the point.”

“What point?”

“I think you’re really pretty.”

“...Oh.” 

Yaz chews the inside of her cheek and stares at her trainers, which are still covered in brittle grass where Jonah piled it on. She shakes them clean. Jonah studies her. She can’t think of a single thing to say. 

“Did I overstep?” worries Jonah. “I have a habit of doin’ that, apparently. I don’t wanna weird you out, I just—“

“You didn’t weird me out,” insists Yaz. “I actually wanted to call you pretty, too, but I wasn’t sure if you’d be offended.”

“Offended?”

Yaz glances at the non binary patch on their jacket. 

“Ah,” says Jonah. “Well, allow me to verbally grant you blanket permission to call me pretty whenever you see fit. I’ll also take handsome. Ravishing. Irresistible. Sculpted by the gods thems—“

“Humble, too?” cracks Yaz. 

“Of course. Never anythin’ but.”

Yaz hugs her knees and hides her smile behind them, but her eyes must give her away if the conspiratorial wink Jonah shoots her is any indicator. 

A rustling overhead prompts them both to look up. 

Perched on the branch of a tree directly above them is a plump bird with bright red plumage and a black face. It cocks its head, fixes a beady eye on them, and begins to whistle. 

“A Northern Cardinal,” whispers Jonah. “Listen, it almost sounds like it’s singin’ the word ‘pretty’ over and over again.”

Indeed, when Yaz listens hard enough, the individual syllables of the cardinal’s birdsong take the precise shape Jonah said they would. Yaz can’t decide whether it’s a cute or creepy coincidence. 

“Be honest, did you pay this bird to do that?” 

Jonah grins. “Must’ve heard us talkin’.”

They plunge their hand into the wallet pocket of their jacket and then, to Yaz’s astonishment, pull out a full handful of loose birdseed. 

“Jonah, why the f—“

“Shh. Watch.” 

Jonah scatters some of the seeds onto the grass beside the boulder and then they both sit and wait in perfect silence. Yaz puts a pin in her concerns regarding the contents of Jonah’s pockets for the time being, though she has every intention of circling back to them, and joins Jonah in watching their feathered visitor. 

It hops from side to side on its branch, deliberating. Neither Yaz nor Jonah so much as twitch a muscle. After a long, strangely tense moment (and lots of nervous tweeting), the bird hops off its branch and swoops toward the grass. 

It lands mere centimetres from Jonah’s thigh, pecking at the seeds and keeping an eye on them at all times. Jonah slowly curls open their fist. A second heap of birdseed lies upon their palm. 

The cardinal lifts its head. Freezes. Stares at Jonah’s offering. 

By the time Yaz blinks, the bird has alighted on one of Jonah’s fingers. It gobbles the birdseed fast, wary of Jonah and the trust it places in them. Jonah doesn’t even breathe. It surprises Yaz that they even have it in them to sit so still; to entice something so fragile, so hollow-boned and vulnerable, into their open hand. 

“You are a beautiful thing,” Jonah croons in a cadence as delicate as the smallest feather on its folded wings. When their voice doesn’t scare it off, they press on, emboldened. “How’re the skies today, eh? Much traffic?”

The bird keeps feeding. 

Undeterred by its silence, Jonah asks, “Have you got a name?” 

“I don’t think it’s gonna answer you, Jonah,” Yaz chimes in, though she can’t deny how endearing a picture they make. 

“He,” Jonah corrects. “Can tell by the colour of his feathers. How ‘bout you name him, Yaz?”

“Me?”

“Go on, what d’you reckon?” 

Yaz considers the bird. His candy red feathers catch a thin sliver of chilled sunlight; when he ducks his head to peck a sunflower seed from Jonah’s glove, the spotlight lands on a small black spot above his eye. 

“How about Pepper?” proposes Yaz. 

“Pepper,” Jonah repeats, lips stretching thin and wide. “Yeah. Little Pepper. Suits him. What d’you think, mate? Like it?”

Pepper chirps and hops onto a different finger. 

“He loves it,” laughs Jonah. “Yaz, can you grab my phone out of my pocket? I want a picture but I don’t wanna move and scare him off.”

“Which pocket?”

“In my jeans. Closest to you.”

Ensuring she avoids making any sudden movements, Yaz shuffles up closer to Jonah and nestles her hand into their pocket. Her fingers slide underneath the phone and along Jonah’s leg, and they make eye contact, and that’s a mistake. 

Something wicked is embedded in Jonah’s eyes, preserved like a wasp in amber—wings mid-flight and sting poised to strike. Yaz might like to prick her finger on it. 

Puckish intent eclipses Jonah’s voice when they mutter, “Just a little deeper.”

“You definitely planned this,” Yaz accuses. 

“That’s right. I came to the park extra early this mornin’ so me and Pepper could scheme ways to have my date feel me up.”

Pepper cocks his head. 

“I am _not_ feelin’ you up,” Yaz refutes. 

“Your hand’s still in my pocket, Yaz.”

Huffing petulantly, Yaz closes her hand around Jonah’s phone and yanks it out. She holds it up to Jonah’s face to unlock it, pulls up the camera, and sets it on them. 

“Better hurry,” urges Jonah. “I feel a sneeze comin’ on.”

“Hold it,” Yaz instructs. 

Jonah’s nose twitches. Yaz waits for the camera to focus. Their nose twitches some more. 

“Yaz…”

“Hang on, Pepper keeps blurring.”

Yaz taps the screen until Pepper’s feathers sharpen. The moment her thumb descends upon the button, Jonah’s restraint disintegrates. 

They sneeze so violently, and with such sheer volume, that even Yaz flinches away from them. Birdseed flies out of their hand and lands in their hair and on their beanie, and Pepper launches into the air in a flurry of feathers, darting between the branches and making like a bullet for the sky. 

“Bless me,” cringes Jonah, watching Pepper disappear from view with a crestfallen pout. “Ah, well. Safe travels, buddy.”

Yaz, meanwhile, is in hysterics. She captured the exact moment of Jonah’s almighty sneeze: full-face grimace, mouth wide open, head shrinking into their neck. On their palm, Pepper’s wings are already unfurling and birdseed is suspended in the air. 

“Oh, no. Gimme that,” demands Jonah, lunging for their phone. 

“Wait, no!” Yaz falls back and stretches her hand as far from Jonah’s reach as possible as they clamber over her in an attempt to steal it back. “You can’t delete it, it’s brilliant!”

“I can and I will,” rebuts Jonah, grunting when their fingers fall just short of the phone. “Yaz!”

“Promise me you won’t delete it!”

Jonah makes a frustrated sound. “Fine!”

“I don’t believe you.”

“I’ll send it to you, okay? Cross my bloody heart.”

Jonah tries to swipe the phone again but Yaz moves her hand away just in time. 

“I just said—“

“You don’t have my number,” argues Yaz. 

Jonah stops struggling. Half-straddling one of Yaz’s legs, they arch a sculpted brow at her. “I will.”

Disarmed by their assuredness, Yaz doesn’t even think to try and fend them off the next time they make a grab for their phone. They tear it from her grasp and lift off her, pulling a face when they get a good look at the picture Yaz took. 

“Blimey, I’ve got about twenty chins in this,” they grumble. 

“Sculpted by the gods themselves, I’m sure.”

“Sculpted by the American diet, more like. Speaking of—“ Jonah pats their stomach— “you hungry?”

“I could eat.”

A short time later, after wandering the park awhile, they come by a food truck selling pastries and pretzels. Jonah is adamant that it’s the best in New York. In America. In the world.

The vendor greets them as if they’re an old friend, and so commences another lengthy conversation. Once Jonah is all caught up on the well-being of his wife and kids, and how his home renovation is coming along, and what his plans are for the entire year to come, they finally remember their appetite.

“I’ll just get my usual, if you wouldn’t mind, mate.” They turn to Yaz. “And you? Hang on, lemme guess. I’m usually wicked at this. You strike me as savoury over sweet, right? No nonsense; no frills and bows. You want… a soft cinnamon pretzel! Yeah?”

“Spot on,” laughs Yaz (but the truth is, they suggest it with so much enthusiasm that Yaz would have agreed no matter what they’d said). 

Jonah punches the air triumphantly.

Moments later, the vendor slides across two pretzels—one cinnamon, and one a heart attack’s wet dream. It’s dusted with sugar, sprinkled with chocolate and fudge, and glazed with a healthy dose of syrup. 

“God, I feel ill just lookin’ at that thing,” Yaz cringes as they walk away, watching Jonah take a healthy bite out of their pretzel. 

“Mm, s’delicious,” they hum without swallowing. Their eyes are lidded as if they’ve been unashamedly seduced by the sweet palate of diabetes. “I never come through here without gettin’ one of these bad boys. Which is, y’know, basically every day for the past five years. I love comin’ to the park. Feels like the only place in the city where you can get a breath of fresh air. Speakin’ of—how long have you lived here now?”

“About a month,” answers Yaz. She averts her eyes. “To be honest, I’ve not seen much of it. In fact, this is the first time I’ve even stepped into Central Park.”

Jonah stops; whirls on the spot. “ _What_ ? But—Yaz, a whole _month_ and you’ve never even been to Central Park? What on Earth have you been doin’ with your time?”

“I’ve been busy,” Yaz shrugs. 

Incredulous doesn’t begin to describe Jonah’s expression. Graciously, when they notice Yaz’s suddenly abashed demeanour, their features soften. 

“Well, in a way, I guess I should feel honoured.” They take another bite of their pretzel and nudge Yaz’s shoulder with their own. “I get to be your first.” 

Yaz arches a brow at the innuendo. “In that case, let’s hope you know what you’re doin’.”

“Oh, I know my way around a pretty thing.” 

“Hope you’re on about the park.”

“What else?”

They exchange whispering smiles. 

By the time they approach Bethesda Terrace, their pretzels are gone (Jonah finishes Yaz’s when she takes too long to eat it) and Jonah is vibrating with the extra energy the copious sugar gives them. They skip through the colonnades and swing around one of the pillars, gazing with reverence at the polished, amber ceiling in which their own reflection smiles back at them. 

There’s a touch of reverence caught in Yaz’s eye, too, but it isn’t for the architecture. 

“I love it here,” Jonah sighs. When they realise Yaz has kept walking, they abruptly push away from the pillar and jog after her. “So, um, can I ask what’s kept you so busy that you can’t even take a walk through the park?”

“Just work,” says Yaz, and it’s only half a lie. 

“Right. Fashion designer,” Jonah recalls as they emerge from the terrace. 

Beyond it, a huge, circular fountain with a stone angel for a centrepiece sits in the centre of a vast courtyard. Past its wings, Yaz glimpses a partly-frozen lake which she reckons is great for gondolas and canoes in the summertime. There are people sitting on the fountain’s ledge, on benches lining the outskirts of the courtyard; on the stairwells fringing the terrace. Yaz and Jonah find a free bench to claim.

“It’s funny, actually,” Jonah goes on as they sit down a short distance apart, “I were readin’ this art and culture magazine the other day—I read lots of magazines about lots of different things, keeps the mind occupied—and there were this article about a huge fashion designer who’d moved up here from England; said they’re unveilin’ some proper swanky new collection at a big show soon. Come to think of it, her name’s a lot like yours, too. Yasmin, I think. Yasmin Khan. Don’t ask me how I remember. Steel trap memory. It’s a blessin’ and a curse. But what a coincidence! Have you heard of ‘em?”

Yaz gives them a waiting look. 

“Wait a minute…” Jonah’s eyes snap wide open. “Yaz, short for—short for Yasmin? Yasmin Khan?”

“‘Fraid so,” admits Yaz, following a nervous laugh. 

It isn’t the first time somebody’s recognised her name—in fact, it’s happening more and more lately—but she’s still no surer of how to act when it happens. Nor does she know how to feel when she walks down the street and notices somebody wearing one of her pieces, or when she receives invitations to style models for fashion week, or when celebrities reach out to her before they’re due to hit the red carpet. It feels like she’s living somebody else’s life. 

Success didn’t come to her overnight; Yasmin Khan has worked hard for everything she ever got. And yet, somehow, she never quite feels deserving enough. 

“Holy shit!” exclaims Jonah. “But you’re—I mean, you’re, like, properly famous. I think I’ve one of your shirts hangin’ in my wardrobe. Cost a penny, too. Not that I mind. Totally worth it. Almost wore it today, actually, but now I’m glad I didn’t. Would’ve spilled coffee all down it. Sorry, I’m still kind of in shock. You’re Yasmin Khan! I’m on a date with Yasmin Khan! How are you still single? Gorgeous, successful, fashionable. The mind boggles. What are you doin’ sittin’ here with someone like me?”

“I’m hardly famous, Jonah,” refutes Yaz, rubbing her neck self-consciously. Part of her loathes the direction this conversation has taken; part of her is immensely flattered by the way Jonah is gushing about her, even if it is embarrassing. 

“Most colourful and exciting new thing to emerge from the fashion world since Versace, they called you. One of the most sought after designers of our time. What else did they say? Oh—“

“Bloody hell, you really do have a steel trap memory,” interrupts Yaz. “Feel free to stop there, yeah? I did read the article.”

Jonah deflates. “Sorry. Am I makin’ you uncomfortable?”

“No, it’s just… I dunno, I just don’t know how to respond to any of that. Besides, like you said, we’re on a date. I’d rather have a conversation with you than listen to you sit there and sing my praises.”

“You’re right. You’re absolutely right. That’s my mistake. I’ve been natterin’ way too much, haven’t I? I’d be lyin’ if I said this weren’t normal but, well, it’s actually a little bit worse right now. You make me really nervous. When I’m nervous, I ramble. When I ramble, people get annoyed. Are you annoyed? It’s all right if you are. I’m used to—“

The moment Yaz puts her hand on Jonah’s, they fall silent. 

“I think it’s kinda cute, actually,” Yaz smiles. “If it’s any consolation, you make me a little bit nervous, too.”

“I do?” breathes Jonah. 

Yaz nods. 

Jonah turns towards the fountain with lips parted and a thousand-yard stare, as if this revelation takes all of their focus to compute. Their eyes cut to Yaz’s hand, and then sharply away again. Yaz can’t remember if their leg has been bouncing this whole time. 

“Y’know, if you had a tail, somethin’ tells me it’d be waggin’ like no tomorrow right now,” remarks Yaz. 

They adjust their glasses and say nothing. For the first time, they’re tongue-tied. Yaz does her best to work loose the knot. 

“Oh, c’mon, you can’t really find it that unbelievable. You’re not exactly hideous yourself, babe.”

Yaz can’t be sure, but—did their breath just catch because she called them babe? 

“Jonah—“

“Tell me more about it. Your job,” Jonah blurts. Their cheeks are ruddy and they still won’t look Yaz in the eye. Yaz thinks it’s adorable. “How’d you get into somethin’ like that anyway?”

Yaz leans against the back of the bench and shrugs. “It’s kind of a long story.”

“I’d like to hear it,” implores Jonah, braving Yaz’s gaze at last. “I know I’ve been carryin’ on with myself, but I really do wanna get to know you. I’ve a feelin’ you’re a woman well worth knowin’, Yasmin Khan, and I’m usually an excellent judge of character.”

They’re so earnest that Yaz finds her usual evasive deflections crumbling to dust upon her tongue. Unlike most people Yaz meets, she actually believes Jonah when they say they want to know her better.

“I actually first got into fashion when I were a teenager,” she begins. “Back then, I—well, I weren’t the most popular kid at school, let’s put it that way. Not to begin with.”

“I find that very hard to believe.”

“It’s true. And, y’know, stuff like that gets to you dead easily when you’re young. If people treat you like you’re nothin’, then that’s what you start to believe you are. It just made me feel… it made me feel ugly. Inside and out. And there weren’t anythin’ I could do about how worthless I felt, but there was definitely somethin’ I could do about how well I hid it. How I presented myself to the world.”

Jonah was listening intently, head cocked and brow dimpled. With every slight nod of their head, Yaz felt the words unspooling freer, encouraged by their undivided attention. 

“It kinda started as just a few sketches. I mean, I’ve always been pretty into art and crafts and all that, so I started drawing myself how I wished others would see me. Y’know, wearin’ all these incredible outfits and exuding nothin’ but total confidence. It’s so dumb, but I even turned ‘em into these little comics where I was this badass protagonist who everyone wished they could be. And then, one day, I just thought—what’s stoppin’ me? I _am_ the protagonist of my story. I am a badass. What’s stoppin’ me from lettin’ the world know?”

“Oh, I like where this is headed.”

“So, I saved up all my pocket money, and I bought myself a proper sewing machine. I mean, it’s not like I could afford to go out and buy all these expensive, designer clothes. I’d just have to make my own. God, I must’ve spent so many hours over so many nights just sitting up in my room hunched over that bloody machine.”

“Explains the hunchback,” Jonah ribs. 

Yaz slaps their arm playfully and they grin. 

“Sorry, go on. This is the part where you stride through the school gates in your fur coat and shades and wow everybody into falling at your feet, right?”

“Not quite,” laughs Yaz. “Thing is, I spent all this time makin’ all these clothes—and makin’ sure they were absolutely perfect—but I still didn’t have the confidence to wear ‘em. Not at school, anyway. First time I ever went out wearin’ my own stuff, I just went into town. Alone. Just walked around for ages and put on this completely forced air of confidence.”

“What were you wearin’?”

Yaz scratches her eyebrow. “Well, uh, bear in mind this were about sixteen years ago, and fashion were quite different in 2005 than it is now.”

“Oh, no. The noughties were a fashion _disaster_.”

“Yep. Picture me, a kid of fourteen, strollin’ around town in embroidered, bootcut jeans and this really bizarre, over the top corset. And there were a beret, too.”

“ _No_ ,” groans Jonah, burying their face in their hands. “That should be illegal.”

“Look, it’s what were in at the time,” Yaz defends with her palms raised and a smile on her face. “And, y’know somethin’, it bloody worked. For, like, the first time ever, a boy came up to talk to me. Flirted with me. I thought he had me mistaken for someone else at first.”

“Aw, did little Yasmin Khan get a boyfriend?”

Yaz scoffed. “Yeah, right. Think I actually scared him away in the end ‘cause I had no idea how to hold a conversation or maintain eye contact. Anyway, it encouraged me to keep at it. I’d go out—to town, to the cinema, to the library—and I’d wear my homemade outfits and pretend I were some kind of movie star. 

And the more I pretended to feel comfortable in my own skin, the more comfortable I actually became. I changed. Found my spine and stopped bein’ this meek, timid little thing. 

That’s what people responded to, I think. ‘Cause, at school, people started to pay attention to me even before I found the courage to wear my clothes in front of ‘em. It were the way I carried myself. The way I spoke. It’s not like I suddenly became the most popular girl in school, but people left me alone, for the most part. I guess the clothes helped a little in the end. Guys kept tryna ask me out, people chatted to me in class more; I even had a few girls come up and ask me to make them dresses for prom. Actually, I had my first kiss in year eleven. Izzy Flint. One of the mean girls.”

“So why’d you kiss her?”

“‘Cause I could,” Yaz deadpans. 

She can’t tell whether Jonah looks impressed or intimidated. 

“The rest is history, really. I enjoyed fashion. I liked the creative aspect of it, and I liked that it became this sort of shield for me, so I stuck with it, worked my arse off, and now here I am.”

“Here you are. On top of the world!” Jonah spreads their arms. “How’s it look from up there, Yaz? Is it beautiful?”

_Actually_ , Yaz wants to say, _it’s lonely._

She holds her tongue. 

“What about you? What do you do?” she asks instead, hoping to turn the conversation around. “You’ve been talkin’ a mile a minute since I met you, but you’ve not actually told me much.”

“Oh, well, my life’s not quite so glamorous as yours.” Jonah fiddles with the drawstrings of their hoodie. “I’m just a lowly writer.”

“You’re a writer? That’s ace,” enthuses Yaz. “What do you write about?”

Jonah considers. Pulling one foot up onto the bench, they rest their chin on their knee and eye Yaz sidelong. 

“Mostly, Yaz, I write about hope. World like this, I think we all could use a little more of it. That’s why I like writin’ happy endings. No matter how dark the story gets, no matter how much hurt the characters go through, my stories are never over until hope prevails.”

“World like this?” Yaz repeats. 

“Yeah,” they mutter, and it doesn’t look like they’re willing to give much more than that. 

Though Yaz is intrigued by their sudden shift in demeanour, she opts not to pry. They’re near strangers, after all, though it’s so very easy to forget that around Jonah. 

“So, why do you write?” 

“Because I dream.” Jonah drops their leg and leans back. “I dream all the time, of impossible things, and if I don’t get ‘em down then that’s all they’ll ever be. Impossible dreams. But that’s sad, isn’t it? Dreams should come true. This way, at the very least, I get to share ‘em with the world. Well, I say the world. I’m no Stephen King.”

“I bet you’re an amazin’ writer,” Yaz surmises. 

Jonah turns their head. “What makes you say that?”

“You never run out of words,” Yaz states. “Plus, I dunno, you’ve just got this energy. Noticed it the minute I met you. It’s like… I don’t know how to describe it. It’s like if the colour yellow were a person.”

“Yellow’s my favourite colour!”

“Mine, too.” She looks at their hoodie. “You’re wearin’ the proof.”

Jonah’s lips stretch into the kind of toothy smile that thaws Yaz’s icy veins. 

“Did you just call me your favourite colour?” they gloat. “That’s really soft. I didn’t have you down as soft.”

Yaz rolls her eyes. “What I were tryna say is that I can imagine what the creative product of that energy looks like. I can imagine it’s rich and captivatin’ and full of life. ‘Cause you are.”

“I’m rich?”

“In spirit.”

Jonah hums. “I like that. You’re good at compliments, anyone ever told you?”

“Not really. Then again, I don’t dole ‘em out to just anyone.”

“So, what you’re sayin’ is, I’m special?” 

Jonah bats their eyes comically at Yaz; she tries not to indulge them with a laugh, but it proves difficult (and what a nice feeling that is. After all, laughter has been so hard to come by lately.) 

A comfortable quiet befalls them. Together, they sit and watch the world pass them by—and it’s calm. It’s calm in a way Yaz didn’t realise New York could be. She and Jonah: faces in the crowd. Anonymous, invisible, but side by side. 

In an obvious effort to put their arm around her, Jonah begins to stretch dramatically. Perhaps Yaz is a little too smug; perhaps her mistake is letting them know she sees them. Whatever it is, they chicken out at the last second and let their arm fall pathetically across the backrest, looking down at their lap and pulling a noticeable face at their own failed attempt. 

Yaz takes pity. 

Without looking at them, she shuffles along the bench until their thighs are almost touching. Jonah bumps their knee against hers. Yaz reclines against the back of the bench. Their fingers brush her coat. She dares to reach for them. 

They both are looking straight ahead when Yaz tugs their hand onto her shoulder; they both are hiding smiles. 

Neither of them move for a while. 

* * *

Sitting stationary proves unsustainable; their limbs soon stiffen and their teeth begin to chatter. It is with no small measure of reluctance that Jonah removes their arm from Yaz’s shoulders and proposes they keep walking. 

Following a quieter path running parallel to the lake, they take turns kicking a loose pebble ahead of them as they chat in a companionable fashion. 

Jonah talks animatedly; they talk with their whole body—waving their arms, throwing their head back when they laugh, spreading their hands. Yaz gets distracted watching their hands. She’s only half paying attention the next time she kicks the pebble. As a result, her foot greets it with unnecessary force and it goes flying down the grass verge to her left and skids across the icy lake. 

Cutting themself off mid-sentence, Jonah stops walking and stares after the pebble. 

“Look, Yaz. Look how solid that ice is,” they marvel. “Bet you could walk on that, what d’you reckon?”

Yaz makes a noncommittal sound. “I wouldn’t risk it.”

“No risk, no reward!” 

“No, seriously—“

Jonah charges right down the verge with all the reckless glee of a puppy let off its leash. Yaz is more careful, avoiding jutting rocks and fallen branches on her way down. By the time she’s caught up with Jonah, they’re toeing the ice experimentally. 

“Feels pretty thick to me! Shoulda brought my ice skates, shouldn’t I?” 

Before Yaz can voice any more warnings, or point out that the ice turns to slush a few metres away, they drop their backpack and take a sure stride onto the lake. Their feet slip a little, they flail their arms like helicopter blades, and then they find their balance. All the while, Yaz has her arms held out as if to catch them. 

“See?” Jonah bounces on the balls of their feet with a self-satisfied air. “Sturdy stuff. I told y—“

The ice cracks. 

Jonah’s face falls, they look down; the crack webs. 

“Shit!” 

“Jonah!”

Panicked eyes find Yaz’s. The moment they lift their boot, the ice gives way beneath them, but Yaz saw this coming from the start. She seizes Jonah by their forearms and yanks them back onto solid ground, where they collide head-on and fall gracelessly to the grass. 

Yaz ends up pinned beneath Jonah’s body; there’s a lock of blonde hair caught in her mouth and the charms of their belt chain are digging into her hip. She tries not to focus on where Jonah’s knee is. 

Propping themself up on their elbows, Jonah regards the massive hole in the ice and blows out their cheeks with the relief of a near miss. 

“Now, I don’t mind a good bath, but I reckon that woulda been a bit brisk.” They look down at Yaz and push their glasses further up their nose. For the first time, they seem to realise how close their faces are. Their pupils falter over Yaz’s mouth. The muscles in their jaw flex. “Uh. Well. Thanks for savin’ me.”

“Sure,” Yaz croaks. She doesn’t even think to chide them for their impulsiveness; far too busy willing her storm-tossed heart to return to kinder seas. 

Jonah chews the inside of their cheek. “There’s a leaf in your hair.”

“Oh,” says Yaz. She doesn’t attempt to remove it. 

“It’s okay. I’ll just…” 

Jonah reaches behind Yaz’s ear and plucks the leaf from the underside of her bun. After flicking it to one side, their fingers return to smooth down any flyaways. Yaz swallows and Jonah’s gaze snaps towards her throat. Her lips. Her eyes. Their hand is still in her hair, and now they’re looking right at her. 

Deciding to be bold, Yaz lifts her head a few millimetres from the ground. Jonah lowers theirs in kind. Their next shaky breath, a cold mist, tickles Yaz’s lips. She’s overcome with the urge to fill her lungs with it. 

She doesn’t get the chance. 

A short distance away, somebody shouts a shrill warning that comes several seconds too late. Then: a flash of black and brown fur, a surprised yelp, a heavy thud. 

Jonah is knocked clean off Yaz’s body by an excited Doberman, who jumps on top of them and licks the side of their face with a long, pink tongue. Jonah’s whole face lights up. Laughing, they wrap their arms around its neck and roll over with it, while the owner stands at the top of the verge and scratches his head. Yaz reckons he’s probably wondering what he just interrupted. 

He’s not the only one. 

Later, when Jonah is finished rolling around in the grass with their new best friend and Yaz has brushed the dirt and twigs from their body for them, they start back the way they came. The gates come into view. Yaz’s stomach drops. 

It dawns on her, as the din of the city—blaring horns, idle engines, a cacophony of indistinguishable voices—wafts through the railings to welcome them, that the hour she allocated herself for the date has long passed. And yet she isn’t ready to make her excuses. She’s not prepared to say goodbye to Jonah. She doesn’t want to go home. 

They slow to an uncertain stop just before the gates. Hands in their pockets, Jonah eyes the busy street and hesitates. 

“So…” they say, lifting their shoulders and warming their neck in their upturned collar. “Central Park virginity taken. How did I do? Any notes? Constructive criticism? Don’t hold back on my account.”

Yaz smiles. “I liked it. You made a half decent tour guide.” 

“Yeah, well, there’s tonnes we didn’t get to see. Too big to cover it all in one day. And, I mean, it’s beautiful in winter but y’really can spend forever here in the summertime. There’s all these hidden places tucked away where I go to write and read, and there’s some ace picnic spots, although usually I’m just picnickin’ with my dog. Did I mention I have a dog?”

“Once or twice.”

“Right.” Rueful, Jonah bites their lip.

“Maybe… I mean, maybe we could come back. You could show me a bit more of the park.” Yaz shrugs. “I could even meet your dog.”

Jonah’s eyes turn round as dinner plates; both are heaped with delight. “Yeah? Really?”

“Really.”

“Oh, he’d love that! Screwdriver _adores_ humans. Proper people person. Or, uh, people dog? He’s a big softie, is what I’m tryna say.”

Yaz rocks back. “Hang on—your dog’s called Screwdriver?”

“Yeah?”

“I—why?”

“Well, I had to call him _somethin_ ’, Yaz. How else would I get his attention? Bit of a daft question.”

“Right,” chuckles Yaz. “My mistake.”

There’s a pause. Freighted. It feels like there’s something they’re both itching to say, but neither have the guts. 

“Shame the weather’s too cool to stay out here, isn’t it?” laments Jonah, in a manner suggesting there’s another question hidden between the lines. They scuff the ground with the thick heel of their boot, eyes intermittently flitting towards Yaz. 

“It is a shame,” Yaz concurs. _A crying shame_. Hoping she’s translated Jonah’s expectant looks correctly, she makes a calculated remark of her own. “Although, to be fair, I’ve not explored much else of the city either.”

Jonah pauses. The bait hangs in front of them. 

They grab it with both hands.

“Would you want to? Like, maybe, now? With me? You don’t have to. Obviously. It’s just that it’s still so early, and I feel really bad that you’ve hardly seen anythin’ this city has to offer, and—well, I’m enjoyin’ your company, to be honest. Quite a lot.”

Under the warmth of their words, the grey sludge congesting Yaz’s heart begins to melt and turn to water. Her next breath feels a little lighter. 

“I’d love to,” she says. “What did you have in mind?"


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy 3 days before ur bday robroskiiiii x

Warmth.

That’s the first thing Yaz notices upon following Jonah through the belled door of the shop. It swings shut behind them and seals them in a cocoon of gentle heat, from which Yaz never wants to emerge. 

Jonah takes a deep breath in through their nostrils and exhales dreamily—as if they were standing in a sweet-smelling bakery. In reality, they’ve taken Yaz to a book shop. It smells like paper and dust and, strangely, cat litter. Yaz can’t fathom why until she spots a Siamese cat leaping down from the top of a bookshelf. It lands gracefully on the balustrade beside a short, wooden staircase, which leads to an upper level of the shop, and proceeds to lick its paw. 

The place is far more spacious than it had appeared from outside; the shelves are wide and tall and easy to get lost behind, and there’s a lounge area through the aisles to Yaz’s left, where the burning logs in the fireplace illuminate a couple of armchairs, a green velvet loveseat, and an oak coffee table. 

Electric lanterns affixed to the wall lend the place a dim, homely atmosphere, as does the classical music leaking out of an old stereo on the desk to their right. Sitting behind it is an old man with a gaunt face and a cabby hat pulled over his eyes. Were it not for his faint snoring, Yaz would have half a mind to presume him dead. 

“Home away from home,” announces Jonah. Wooden floorboards groan beneath their feet as they approach the desk and slam their hand down on the bell. 

The old man starts so suddenly Yaz worries for his health. 

“Hiya, Roger!” beams Jonah. 

“Eh? Jonah?” He blinks the confusion from his beady eyes and tilts his cap back. “Christ, kid, you tryna send me to an early grave?”

“How many times have I warned you about kippin’ on the job? That’s how you get shoplifters.” Jonah pulls their backpack around to the front of their body and unzips it. From within, they retrieve a book Yaz can’t make out the title of and hand it to Roger. “Got a new one for you. You’ll love this one, it ticks off all your boxes. Mystery, romance; deceit; a few twists and turns. Just skip over the more risqué bits, yeah?”

Roger flicks through the book and gives them a wary look. “Jonah, I’m seventy six.”

“Exactly. Don’t want your old heart givin’ out ‘cause you get a bit too excited, do we?” 

“Cheeky bastard.” 

Jonah sniggers. 

Rising to his feet, with a detectable modicum of difficulty, Roger sweeps his eyes across the shop. They only briefly linger on Yaz. 

“No Screwdriver today?” he wonders. 

“Nah, thought I’d give the cat a break. I’m actually on a date!”

“You? On a date?” Roger scoffs. “Hell must be freezing over. I thought you said you weren’t—“

Jonah clears their throat politely, prompting Roger to stop and look between the two of them. After a moment’s delay, the confusion on his face dissipates and he purses his lips as if he understands. Yaz wishes she could say the same. She shoots Jonah an inquisitive look, but all she earns in response is an attempt at a guileless smile. It comes off forced. 

“Well, I’m not complaining,” says Roger. “Not if it means you stop camping out in my damn shop every day. I ought to start charging rent. For you _and_ the furball.”

“Aw, come on. I help out loads.” Jonah nudges Yaz’s side. “This place’d be an absolute sty if I didn’t clean it for him.”

“Ah, whatever.” He waves his hand dismissively. “You still coming by to do that reading next week?”

“Reading?” asks Yaz.

“Oh. Yeah, um.” Jonah fixes their glasses needlessly and looks at their feet. “It’s nowt, really. I—“

“They come by every few weeks to read for the BBC.”

“BBC?”

“Blind Book Club.” Roger blows his nose into an old tissue and shoves it into his trouser pocket. “Got yourself a modern saint with this one, darlin’.”

“Decidedly not a saint,” Jonah mumbles.

“Sounds pretty saint-like to me,” rebuts Yaz. 

If she’s not mistaken, Yaz thinks she sees something akin to annoyance pass over Jonah’s face at her comment—harmless though its intent was. But any sign of bother vanishes in a blink. The smile they replace it with comes so naturally that Yaz struggles to believe there was ever anything in its stead. 

“Anyway,” they say, “mind if we borrow the keys?”

Roger grunts the affirmative and plucks a set of keys from a hook on the wall behind him. He offers them to Jonah but, when they go to grab them, he pulls his hand sharply back. 

“And make sure you don’t walk it back in with you this time, will you?”

Jonah rolls their eyes and steals the keys. “One time!”

“Wait, what are they keys for?” asks Yaz. 

“You’ll see,” winks Jonah. “Follow me, Yaz. I think you’re gonna like this.”

With that, Jonah leads Yaz to the back of the shop, through a door marked ‘Staff Only’, down a short corridor, and then into a stairwell. The stairs are narrow, steep, and slightly uneven, so Jonah walks behind Yaz as they climb and keeps their hands on her waist to keep her from slipping. They _tell_ her it’s to keep her from slipping, at any rate, but Yaz has her suspicions. 

After ascending four flights, they come to a locked door which, if the daylight seeping through the sill is any indicator, leads up onto the roof. 

“We’re goin’ on the roof?” puzzles Yaz. 

“Yep! If I could just…” 

Jonah has to squeeze past Yaz to get the key in the door; they’re practically pressed chest to chest all the while. Yaz’s suspicions grow. Once it’s unlocked, Jonah pushes the door open and gestures for Yaz to take the lead. 

Stepping back into the freezing afternoon sun, Yaz squints while her eyes readjust. 

At first, the rooftop doesn’t look like anything but an ordinary rooftop. Across a stretch of flat, grey concrete and past the parapet lies a view of the surrounding city—mostly brown and grey buildings of varying heights, with the occasional high-rise towering over their crowns and alluding to the thriving metropolis they left several blocks behind. 

There’s a pigeon shed in the middle of the roof; the birds inside hardly react to their arrival (even when Jonah greets a few of them by name). Beside that sits a small wooden structure Yaz can’t imagine serves any purpose other than to house tools and birdseed. 

“I hope you didn’t bring me up here for the view,” quips Yaz. “Got a better one from my apartment.”

“Turn around, Yaz,” says Jonah. 

Yaz turns around. 

“Oh.”

It’s colour she sees. 

As it happens, the building they’re on top of is directly adjoined to another, much taller building. The side facing them is windowless and was, once upon a time, probably grey. Not anymore. 

The wall has been transformed into a chaotic mural; an ill-fitting jigsaw of amateur illustrations. Yaz struggles to focus on any one aspect. 

On the bottom left, there’s a painting of what Yaz thinks is a broken moon with a winged creature emerging from the broken shell. Higher up (where a long ladder has been propped against the wall), a stone angel hides her face in her hands. There’s a scattering of stars, a labrador with a bone in its mouth; two gruesome hearts beating side by side (one blue and one red); a fragment of poetry. None of it is cohesive. Some parts overlap others, some are half-finished, and some are so hastily painted that Yaz can’t make out what they’re supposed to be for the life of her. 

“Did you do this?” Yaz asks, stepping up to the mural and tracing the uneven outline of a star with her fingertip. At her feet, there’s a whole row of paint buckets, each a different hue. 

“All me,” answers Jonah. They’re standing by the toolshed fumbling for a key. “Come up here a lot when I have writer’s block, or when I’m tryna sort through all my dreams, or when my head gets a bit too full and I need to empty it out. Happens a lot.”

When they find the right key, Jonah unlocks the padlock and opens the door. 

“I’m no artist, as you can see,” they call from inside the shed, “but, well, expression doesn’t need to be perfection, is what I always say.”

“What are you doin’ in there?” 

Yaz is on the verge of going over to investigate when Jonah emerges once more. They’ve got a paint-splattered lab coat on over their clothes, and there’s another draped over their shoulder. In their hand is a box full of brushes. 

“When you mentioned you were into art, I thought this might be somethin’ you’d get a kick out of,” explains Jonah, setting down the brushes and handing Yaz the spare coat. “Thought it could be a nice reminder, too, that there’s more to this city than what you might see on the surface. It’s what you make it. For me, I need sanctuary. I need places where I can go and hide and just let it all out. So I build ‘em for myself. I’d only forget to breathe otherwise. You ever feel like that? Like you haven’t taken a proper, deep breath in way too long?”

“Yeah, actually,” admits Yaz, fidgeting with the coat. “Didn’t realise other people felt like that.”

“I’ll let you in on a secret, Yaz,” begins Jonah, crouching down and popping open the lid of a bucket, “everyone feels like that sometimes. We’re only human. Small bones—massive emotions. They’ll bleed outta you one way or another. Best to make it on your own terms, eh?”

Jonah dips a roller into a bucket of white paint, stands up, and slaps it over the portrait of the broken moon.

“Wait,” Yaz exclaims, “what’re you doin’?” 

“Well, I need a blank canvas.”

“But you’re just paintin’ over all your hard work.”

“This stuff’s only meant to be temporary. I prefer it that way. Takes the pressure off.” Jonah paints over the last of the picture and stands back. “Besides, it’s not like I’m out here creatin’ masterpieces. I’m just out here to feel. When new feelings come, new art is made. How it should be. Here, you take this bit. I’ll take the other end.”

“What am I meant to paint?”

Jonah lifts their palms to the sky as they back away. “Paint what you feel, Yaz. Just have fun with it. Fancy some tunes? I’ve a radio in the shed, but the antenna doesn’t work and there’s an old Springsteen cassette jammed in it. Pigeons love it, mind.”

“So my options are static or 80’s heartland rock?”

“Yep.”

“Bruce it is.”

“Excellent choice.”

So, whilst Yaz pulls on her lab coat and picks up a brush, Jonah drags a radio out of the shed, sets it up by the pigeons, and hits play on the soundtrack to their creative toil. 

Jonah pulls no punches; they plunge right into a bucket and get to work. Yaz hesitates. This isn’t her usual medium, and she worries that, if she paints what she feels, something ghastly might unravel from the bristles of her brush and rear its ugly head at Jonah. 

But then she looks over at them. The tip of their tongue is sticking out of their mouth, their face is creased with concentration, and they’re humming along to the music. 

Inspiration strikes. 

Before Yaz can even think about what she’s doing, she’s painting careful, fluid lines across her makeshift canvas. Using a bucket of rainwater to intermittently clean her brush, she dips into almost all of the paints at her disposal, keen as she is to get her depiction right—regardless of Jonah’s insistence that perfection is unimportant. 

As she’s filling in some finer details with a smaller brush, Yaz realises that this is the first time she hasn’t painted for work in months. Every time she’s tried to create something for fun recently, her pencil hovers just shy of the paper and the muscles in her hand don’t move. 

It’s like there’s been a block in the road, and Yaz has been sitting behind the wheel of her car for weeks, staring at the problem and struggling beyond hope to see a way around it. 

Here, now, she mows it down. 

Crashes through it. 

Where her hand glides, colour follows, and it’s so immensely freeing that she can’t dampen the long-lost smile on her face (not helped by the fact that Jonah keeps breaking away from their labour to use their paintbrush as a microphone and belt out an off-key accompaniment to the choruses). 

Yaz marks the passage of time by the changing of songs. They’re almost at the end of the album when she takes a step back. The sun’s rays sidestep her silhouette; fan their golden fingers across her vibrant painting and bring it to life. 

Not half bad—even if it doesn’t hold a candle to the real thing. 

Jonah’s attention is snared when Yaz drops her brush into the box. 

“You done?” 

“Um. I guess, yeah.”

For the first time, Jonah crosses the roof to get a look at Yaz’s work. Every step they take raises Yaz’s blood pressure a notch higher. This was an inevitability, Yaz knows, but she’d been far too engrossed in the act of creation to prepare herself for the moment Jonah actually set eyes on the painting. 

When they do, their face breaks open and wonder pours out. They stop dead. Yaz holds her breath. 

“You… but that’s…” 

“It’s you.”

Jonah hadn’t made it easy for Yaz—they never stood still; never stopped talking or singing or waving their arms about—but, while there are minor discrepancies in detail, she thinks she got their spirit down. 

The portrait depicts them from their torso up. They’re looking over their shoulder and laughing, like they’ve been caught in a candid photograph. There was no chance Yaz would have been able to imitate the brilliance of their smile, but she did her damnedest. Pearly teeth glow white, smile lines run deep, and their eyes alone contain four different shades. If Yaz stares at them for too long, she can almost convince herself that they’re gleaming right at her; that their honeyed flecks are twinkling and their pupils are expanding. 

The sunflower on the back of their jacket is what inspired the background; their head is haloed by the light of the sun, whose rays take the form of translucent petals and intrude on the surrounding paintings.

Bewildered, Jonah turns to Yaz. “You painted me.”

“You told me to paint what I felt.”

“Which is?”

“Can’t you tell?”

Jonah breathes a disbelieving laugh and admires the painting once more, shaking their head softly.

“Is that okay?” queries Yaz. “I mean, I probably should have asked, shouldn’t I? This is, like, your space and I just went and—“

“You’re incredible,” Jonah proclaims under their breath. 

Yaz’s mouth falls closed. 

“Only problem is,” they go on, “I don’t think I’ll ever be able to paint over this one now. I don’t think I have it in me.”

“Sorry,” Yaz mutters.

“Don’t be. I’m not complainin’.”

Shoulder to shoulder, they both turn their heads at the exact same moment. Yaz tries not to look at their mouth, even when their lips twitch in an implication of a smile, but she feels her resolve waning and her hands itching to reach for them. 

She looks away.

“What about you?” she asks the floor. “What did you paint?”

Jonah sighs quietly beside her and Yaz curses her sudden timidity. It isn’t like her to be skittish, but it also isn’t like her to feel so many inexplicable things about a person she’s just met. Today is full of firsts. 

“Take a look,” implores Jonah. “Not quite so good as yours, mind.”

Heeding Jonah’s invitation, Yaz steps around them and crosses the roof. Their piece is still wet; dripping down the brick because of the overabundance of paint they’ve used. Something tells Yaz that moderation isn’t Jonah’s forte. 

Still, the painting makes Yaz smile. 

In a mimicry of Michalengelo’s _The Creation of Adam,_ Jonah has painted two hands reaching for one another against a backdrop of clouds and blue sky. One hand wears fingerless gloves; the other is the same brown hue as Yaz’s skin. Their fingertips are millimetres apart. It’s no distance at all. 

It’s an infinity. 

* * *

After hanging up their coats and feeding the pigeons, Yaz and Jonah head back out through the bookshop. For reasons Yaz can’t initially ascertain, Jonah appears very reluctant to linger in the shop, attempting to steer Yaz straight for the door and back out into the city. 

“But, Jonah—“

“Here’s the keys, Rog,” says Jonah, tossing the keys to him and offering him a brief salute. “Thanks a tonne. I’ll probably swing by tomorrow. Ready, Yaz?”

“Actually, I thought maybe I’d have a look around.”

“Nah, what d’you wanna do that for?” wonders Jonah, stepping in front of Yaz’s line of sight when she casts her eyes towards a book display over her shoulder. 

Yaz squints at them. “You’re bein’ weird.”

“Am I? Maybe I am. Sounds like me. Weird and a little bit wonderful, as you’ll come to learn. Except you’re not gonna learn anythin’ with your nose in a book. Well, no, you will, but you’ll learn nothin’ about _me_. Which I realise is comin’ across as plenty more vain than I intended. What I’m tryna say—“

Patience wearing thin, Yaz pushes past Jonah towards the display they seem intent on keeping her away from. Jonah groans but makes no move to stop her when she picks up one of the books on the stand and studies its cover. 

“The Timeless Child,” Yaz reads aloud, “by Jonah Smith.”

When she looks back, Jonah is grimacing at the ground with their hands behind their back. 

“This is yours?”

“‘Tis indeed,” they confirm with no small measure of reluctance. “It’s—you should probably just put it down. I mean, really.”

Yaz frowns at a sticker on the corner of the cover. “New York Times bestseller?”

“What isn’t these days?” Jonah parries, following a self-deprecating chuckle. Upon dragging their eyes up off the floor at last, they cringe to find Yaz flicking through the pages. “Look, if y’really wanna read somethin’ I’ve written, I’ll give you a recommendation. I’ve written a bunch of books. Books you’ll probably enjoy much more than that one.”

“What’s wrong with this one? Mate, look at all these reviews. Is this one from _the_ Neil Gaiman? Holy—“

“Yaz, please.”

Something in the tone of Jonah’s voice makes Yaz look up from the book. It appears as if they’re exerting every ounce of willpower on refraining from lunging forward and tearing the book from Yaz’s hands, opting instead to bite their thumbnail and tap their foot. Yaz lowers the book. 

“Why not this one?” she asks again. 

“It’s just—it’s dark, that’s all.”

“I’m not afraid of the dark, babe.”

“It’s raw.”

“Soundin’ better by the minute.”

Jonah pauses for a long time.

“It’s real.”

“Real?” Yaz turns the book over. There’s no blurb; only more glowing reviews. She skims briefly over them. 

“ _...an extraordinarily moving tale of perseverance through hardship…”_

“ _Smith has perfectly encapsulated what it is to be a deeply flawed human being in a deeply flawed world.”_

_“You’ll cry like a baby. You’ll scream your throat raw. You’ll punch the air with glee. Read this book.”_

_“...not for the faint of heart.”_

A gloved hand reaches, without force, for the book. Yaz lets Jonah pluck it from her grasp and set it down on the display without protest. 

“I don’t get it,” confesses Yaz. “That’s a published book. It’s out there for the whole world to see.”

“Well, I’m not on a date with the whole world. I don’t much care what they think of me.” Jonah slips their hands into their back pockets and ducks their chin. “Look, obviously I know nothing’s stoppin’ you from buyin’ a copy the moment we’re apart, but I’d rather you get to know who I am now before you learn who I was then. I’d like that chance. I’d like today, at least.”

“I’m not faint of heart, Jonah,” Yaz insists. “I don’t scare that easily.”

“I never said you were the one who’d get scared.” Jonah smiles weakly at her. “I’m the coward, Yasmin Khan. All me.”

“You don’t strike me as a coward.”

“Oh, really? Yaz, I’ve been wantin’ to hold your hand all day and I couldn’t even manage that,” huffs Jonah, sulkily jabbing the toe of their boot into the solid wood display stand and then failing to mask how much it hurts. 

They turn away, but not before Yaz sees their lips forming the shape of a harsh expletive. Yaz tries her best to refrain from laughing. 

“Well, the day’s far from over, babe,” she sings as she backs toward the door, deciding to disregard Jonah’s book and, in turn, her elusive past (at least for now). “You know where my hands’ll be when yours start to get cold.”

Jonah lifts their brows and apparently forgets to be in pain. As if tethered to Yaz by an invisible lasso, they stagger after her and watch her spread her hands—a challenge and a dare. 

“I’m feelin’ a bit of a chill right now, actually,” claims Jonah. 

Yaz smirks. “Shame you’re too much of a coward to do anythin’ about it.”

She turns around and pulls the door open. Before she has a chance to escape out onto the street, Jonah’s hand closes around hers and they tug her back a step, chests bumping together and fingers intertwining. Jonah brushes their thumb over the back of her glove; Yaz curses that she can’t feel it on her skin. 

“Would you look at that?” marvels Jonah. “Perfect fit. Knew we would be.”

“Is that right?” asks Yaz. 

Jonah takes a step forward. 

“Mhm.”

Yaz takes a step back. 

The door clicks shut again when she presses into it. 

With nowhere left to run, Yaz has no choice but to let Jonah close the space between them and trap her between their body and the door (although, in all honesty, the last thing Yaz wants to do is run when Jonah is looking at her like _that_ ). 

“Y’know,” Jonah begins, “my lips are a little cold, too. Know any remedies for that?”

Yaz offers an arch shrug. “I can think of one or two.”

Jonah threads her fingers through Yaz’s other hand. They take another small step. The buttons of their jacket brush up against the dark fur of Yaz’s coat and, once again, the scent of them—the amber, the cedar; the tobacco of their cologne, along with a whiff of sugar and the cold air smell clinging to their clothes—permeates Yaz’s senses. 

It might as well be a drug for the way her heart kicks and her pupils bloom, but that could just as easily be down to the fact that Jonah is suddenly leaning into her. They lick their lips and hone in on hers, and the rest of the world melts away. 

They almost make it, this time. 

But the universe is not on their side. 

A mere second after Jonah’s tentative mouth brushes up against Yaz’s, somebody starts pounding the bell on the front desk. Jolted, they spring apart.

“Oi!” shouts Roger. “Read the bastard sign!”

He points a frail finger towards a sign on the window. _No smoking. No phone calls. No kissing._

Jonah pulls a face. “I thought that were a joke!” 

“I’m running a bookstore, not a damn brothel. Go find a busy street corner to suck face on like every other young person in the city.”

“But—“

“Get!”

With an exasperated groan, Jonah drops their forehead to Yaz’s shoulder. All the tightly wound anticipation in Yaz’s gut evaporates; vacates her body alongside her next breath. She squeezes Jonah’s hands.

“Saved by the bell.”

“I’m gonna melt that bloody thing down, make a bullet out of it, and shoot myself,” grumbles Jonah.

“You could do that,” says Yaz, “or we could carry on with our date. Never know, an opportunity might come knockin’ again.”

Jonah lifts their head. “Or we could just find a busy street corner and—“

“No chance.”

“You’re gonna make me work for this, aren’t you?”

“‘Course I am. More fun, that way.”

“For you, maybe.”

Yaz bites back a grin. “C’mon,” she encourages, reaching behind herself for the door handle. “You said somethin’ about a museum before, right?”

Jonah perks up. “Oh, yeah! Right ‘round the corner, actually,” they disclose, reaching above Yaz to hold the door open for her while she steps through. “Nothin’ like a bit of art and culture to get people in the romancin’ mood, eh?”

“If you say so.”

“I know so.”

Jonah is fast to take Yaz’s hand again the second the soles of their feet find the pavement; they get so swept up in a spirited, one-way discussion about the many merits of art that they don’t notice Yaz peering over her shoulder, back through the window of the bookshop, right at Jonah’s book. 

She leaves a trail of question marks behind her as she moves through the city. 

* * *

Jonah belongs in museums. 

They belong like the ancient, time-worn crown of the long-dead prince they pass, they belong like the fossilised remains of two lovers buried side by side; they belong like the dramatic, Renaissance paintings hanging on the walls. 

Whether they’re well-studied on the artefacts or eras they encounter is inconsequential; Jonah always has a lot to say. Theories. Suppositions. Questions. Answers to their own questions. 

Something about being surrounded by so much history just brings them to life. At frequent intervals, they become struck by inspiration and dig their notebook out, scratching avidly on the creamy paper as if they’re in a trance. Yaz tries to steal a glance at what they’re writing, but their penmanship is far too chaotic to translate. 

They practically drag Yaz from room to room (still refusing to relinquish her hand) like a child at Disneyland who can’t wait to see the next attraction lying in wait. 

Except they’ve seen a lot of them before. 

Most of Jonah’s excitement, Yaz realises, is borne from the opportunity to show _Yaz_ all these wonderful things. They study her reactions and predict the parts she’ll like most, correctly judging the art gallery to be her favourite section. 

Jonah belongs with art, too, 

Art was created to be viewed with their awe-struck eyes, to be admired with their singular attention to detail; to fill their head with colour and expression and a different lens to life in every brushstroke. 

Yaz appreciates the art, but not anywhere near as much as she appreciates Jonah appreciating the art. 

A modern art exhibit, new to the gallery, is one of the last places in the museum they visit. It’s bright and it’s bizarre, and Jonah digs a Polaroid camera out of their backpack the moment they read a sign permitting photographs. 

“Look at this one,” calls Yaz, drawing Jonah over from across the room to study a watercolour portrait. 

It’s Times Square. Billboards and advertisements are aglow: gauche, loud; vivid. The sky above is swirling and grey, and a thick fog crawls along the illuminated streets like clouds of pigmented dust: pink, blue, red, green. All deep shades. All consuming.

The thing that strikes Yaz about this particular painting is that, where usually Times Square is an inescapable landslide of bodies, there are no people on the streets. 

Except one.

A distant figure crouches in the centre of the frame; hands pressed to their ears and, if Yaz squints, an agonised grimace on their face. The fog is inches from enveloping them entirely. 

“Cheery one,” cracks Jonah. “Y’like it?”

Yaz shrugs. “I guess… I guess it just resonates.”

“The painting of a bloke screamin’ in the middle of New York resonates with you?”

Yaz drops her eyes. 

“Never mind.” 

She moves on to the next painting and Jonah follows, glancing furtively at her. 

“Sorry, I didn’t mean—what about it resonates with you?” they ask. 

“It doesn’t matter.”

“C’mon, Yaz, I honestly didn’t mean anythin’ by it. It’s a bit of a gloomy one, that’s all.”

Studying the deceptively reckless crimson splatter of an abstract painting, Yaz pulls her lip between her teeth and regrets saying anything. 

“How long have you lived here?” she asks at last. 

“Oh, uh. Goin’ on nine years now, I think. Blimey. Time flies when you’re havin’ fun.” 

If Yaz isn’t mistaken, their latter remark is edged with sarcasm; with a degree of bitterness they likely didn’t intend to make so plain. 

“And how long did it take you to feel at home here?”

Hesitant, Jonah considers Yaz out of the corner of their eye. “Is that what it is? You’re homesick? ‘Cause that’s perfectly normal, Yaz. It’s a huge city compared to back home. Easy to get a little lost in it. To lose yourself, even. I did. For a long time.”

“In what way?”

“Ah, y’know.”

Yaz doesn’t know. 

She has no time to ask any follow-ups before Jonah spares a look at their feet, notices one of their shoes is untied, and clicks their tongue. Offering their Polaroid camera to Yaz, they step away from the wall and crouch down to lace up their boot. 

Unbeknownst to them, they’re crouching right before a bronze statue of a naked man in an identical position: down on one knee, head ducked, wings of copper wire sprouting from between his shoulder blades (okay, _almost_ identical). He’s been forged a handsome face and a muscular body, and yet the crease between Jonah’s eyebrows, the severity of their side profile; even the way their slender fingers steadily tie their yellow laces into a perfect bow all outshine him by a sun’s radiance. 

Yaz can’t resist. She takes a picture. 

When Jonah hears the shutter, they look up, puzzled, and find the lens angled right at them. An undeveloped photograph slides out of the camera just as Yaz lowers it bashfully. 

“Life imitates art,” she offers with a small laugh, nodding at the statue behind Jonah. 

They follow her gaze and grin. “Oh, hello mate. Love it when that happens. Who did it better? Me, right? Hang on, I don’t look tortured enough. How’s this?”

Jonah sculpts their expression into something angstier, shedding their smile for a tight-lipped frown and hunching their shoulders. 

Yaz snorts. “Nah, mate, you look constipated.”

“Well, maybe that’s what I were goin’ for,” blags Jonah, rising to their feet. “Didn’t you read the plaque? The Constipated Angel. That’s what it’s called.”

“You’re full of shit,” scoffs Yaz.

“That’ll be the constipation.”

Yaz hates that she laughs. 

The next room they wander into is empty. It’s also dark. There are several black, spherical projectors dotted around the room which, presumably by design, are easy to overlook. 

Along one wall, a silent black and white film is playing, but it isn’t really a film; it’s a supercut of lovers—a different couple for every clip. They kiss. They embrace. They hold hands. They walk together and dance together and lie together and laugh together. Sun glares, shadows, messy hair, and duvet sheets hide their faces in many of the sequences (easier, Yaz supposes, for the beholder to superimpose their own likeness onto the stars of the motion picture; to cut and paste their own love story onto the wall). 

The movie has a glitchy, imperfect feel to it—like there are frames missing; like this is a vintage, homemade roll unearthed from a dusty box somewhere and not a modern creation. It makes Yaz nostalgic, but she isn’t sure what for. 

Words of white light are projected in massive block letters against the entire opposite wall. 

Their shadows fall over the projection upon their approach. Yaz actively avoids looking at Jonah, who is standing on the far end of the wall and reading the very same words as she. 

**_DO YOU BELIEVE IN  
_** **_LOVE AT FIRST SIGHT?_ **

Yaz wishes the movie weren’t silent. She wishes Jonah hadn’t stopped rambling. She wishes they weren’t the only two people in the room. 

It’s too quiet.

It’s too loud. 

Not until Jonah whispers Yaz’s name and motions towards the empty space dividing them does Yaz notice what they already have: a red string. It’s merely another projection—a thread of light that spans the distance between them, looping and curving along its path—but they both know what it means. Yaz can tell. 

Jonah takes a single step forward, following the string in Yaz’s direction, and a tile beneath their foot glows pink. Yaz tilts their head. They take a step. A tile lights up. 

In the flickering glow, Yaz and Jonah lock eyes. Every step to follow is perfectly synchronised; each lights up another tile until they’ve carved a path of rose-tinted light towards one another. By the time they meet in the middle, their skin is awash with magenta and the red string vanishes. 

Now what? 

Yaz isn’t sure. 

“Hey, Yaz,” whispers Jonah. Still whispering. Why are they whispering? “Can I ask you a question?”

“‘Course,” whispers Yaz. She’s at it, too. 

“Do you believe in love at first sight?”

Yaz glances at the writing on the wall. 

“I’ve never really given it too much though,” she admits. “Do you?”

Jonah doesn’t skip a beat.

“Yeah,” they say, “I do.”

* * *

“So? What d’you think?”

“Not quite as big as I expected, to be honest. And it’s bloody freezin’ out here.”

“I know, but I thought we had to tick at least one touristy thing off your list. C’mon, really, is that all you have to say? Take it all in. Don’t you feel anythin?”

Yaz closes her hands around the metal railing and looks out. 

When she takes a deep breath, the salt on the sea breeze tickles the back of her tongue. It’s a vastly different aroma than any she’d find in the heart of the city, which looms behind them on the near horizon: a crowded metropolis glittering in the slowly sinking sun. The Empire State building stands proud in the midst of its neighbours; upon its shoulders sits an ever-shifting sky of lavender and orange. 

Directly ahead of the ferry, and far closer, Lady Liberty floats on the water. Squawking gulls circle her crown and meandering tourists circle her stone pedestal, drawn like moths to the flame of her lantern. 

In all her stoic, seafoam glory, she stands watch over the waters—a silent guardian, a welcome home, a word lodged in the throats of the American people: freedom.

But what is freedom anyway? 

Yaz has yet to find it in this city, except in one place. 

She eyes Jonah. They’re holding onto the ferry’s railing and leaning back with their head tilted skyward. Sunlight bounces off the lenses of their glasses; gets caught in the teeth of their smile. A polar wind ruffles the blonde locks poking out from their beanie, and Yaz idly wonders what it’d feel like to take their hat off and run her fingers through their hair. 

They catch her staring.

“When I said take it all in,” they smile, “I meant the view—not me. Although, granted, I do make for a pretty decent view, don’t I? Can’t really blame you.”

Jonah’s so busy being smug that they don’t notice the large family trying to squeeze between them and the bench. Alerting them to the space they’re taking up by hanging from the railing, Yaz puts her hand on their back. Their shoulders jump. 

They apologise to the family, pressing into the railing and letting them pass. With a visible swallow, their pupils dart towards Yaz’s arm. 

Yaz leaves her hand there. She traces the stem of the sunflower on their back and Jonah no longer looks so smug. 

“Um.” They adjust their glasses. It seems they’re constantly adjusting their glasses—a nervous tic, Yaz reckons. “Anyway, um, I were thinkin’ about what you said before, about bein’ homesick, and I thought this might help. Sometimes it’s just good to change your perspective a bit. Take a look at the city from the outside and watch it grow smaller and smaller ‘til it isn’t so overwhelmin’ anymore. ‘Cause it can be, can’t it?”

“Yeah,” mumbles Yaz, peering down at the purple water; at the white foam frothing in the wake of the ferry.

“You okay?” 

“I’m fine.” 

Jonah purses their lips, doubtful. They put their hand on Yaz’s shoulder and guide her towards the wooden bench at their backs, where they squeeze in between an old man and a young couple. Jonah doesn’t say anything, but Yaz knows they’re waiting for her to be honest. Or maybe they’re just giving her a moment. Either way, their patience coaxes more candour from Yaz than she’s allowed herself in a while.

“It just doesn’t seem to be gettin’ any easier,” she sighs, head bowed. 

“Which part?”

“All of it. This move were supposed to be good for me, you know? A fresh start. I mean, I outgrew Sheffield a long time ago. I couldn’t stay there. I had to do this. But, now that I’m here, I look around and… everything’s just so alien. It’s so unfamiliar. And there’s nobody here. My family, my friends—they’re all back home. I stepped off that plane and I were so excited, and now look at me. I can hardly leave my apartment without this awful dread just weighin’ me down. I feel like there must be somethin’ wrong with me, ‘cause I know how lucky I am, and I know there are people that’d kill to be in my shoes, but I just can’t shake it. The loneliness. It follows me everywhere.”

Yaz takes an uneven breath. She hadn’t meant to let that much out; can’t even force herself to look up and gauge Jonah’s reaction. 

_Too much,_ Yaz thinks. _Why are you always too much?_

But then Jonah rests their hand on her knee. 

“There’s nothin’ wrong with you, Yaz,” they assert. “Look at me.”

Several seconds pass before Yaz obliges. When she does, Jonah is ready and waiting for her with a smile borne of empathy. 

“Loneliness isn’t a flaw. It’s a feelin’. And none of us can help how we feel, can we?” they reason, squeezing Yaz’s knee. “It’s only been a month, Yaz. Don’t be so hard on yourself. It takes time to adjust.”

“But what if I never do?”

“Easy to feel like that when you’re in the thick of it, but you will. And if you don’t wanna be alone, then you don’t have to be. I always find hard days to be a little easier to bear when you’ve someone around who cares. That’s why I love Screwdriver so much. He’s the _best_ at cuddles, and he always seems to know when I’m down in the dumps.”

Yaz smiles to herself. 

“But, for the record, I’m a close second,” brags Jonah. “Hugs are my jam. Love a good hug. And I’ve plenty to spare for those in need.”

Yaz recalls their brief hug in the thrift shop that morning. Far too brief to judge. With any luck, there’s a second chance on the horizon. With any luck, it’ll last a good, long while.

“So, it happens to you, too?” asks Yaz. “The—the dread. You get that?”

“Used to get it a lot.”

“What changed?”

Jonah’s hand slips from Yaz’s leg; she misses the contact straight away. 

Pensive, they cast their eyes toward the Statue of Liberty and absently stroke their wrist. Yaz hadn’t spotted the tattoo there before—concealed by their sleeve as it was—but now she gets a good look at it. It’s a tally of five, right above their vein. She refrains from asking what it means. 

“I guess nothin’ really changed. I just started makin’ better choices.” Abruptly realising that Yaz is staring at their tattoo, Jonah tugs their sleeve down. “Um. A big help for me, actually, was writin’. It’s a great escape. That energy you talked about me havin’? Well, it’s not always yellow. Sometimes it’s loud and black and angry, and the only time I can run away from it—from myself—is by bein’ someone else. I plunge myself into another world, step into the shoes of another person, and just get lost for a while. It’s good ‘cause it’s a safe way of steppin’ out of your body. No risk. Except, well, bad reviews or writer’s block.”

Yaz has only known Jonah for a short time, and yet it’s hard for her to believe that their blithe, carefree personality might ever be eclipsed by so much as a wisp of grey cloud. Although, if she thinks about it, the clues have been there all day. 

Their reaction when Yaz called them a saint.

The look they gave Roger when he expressed his surprise that they were on a date. 

The book. 

Yaz worries that they could be red flags, but she’s also just relieved to have found someone who seems to understand her longing to break free of her own mind. It’s not often that Yaz feels comfortable enough to discuss these kinds of things; it’s almost never that someone makes her feel so heard. 

“How long have you been writin’ for?”

“All my life,” replies Jonah. “Ever since I were a little’un. I’ve always had far too much to say. Didn’t publish my first book ‘til my mid twenties, mind. And then I stopped for a while. Years, actually. I didn’t write a single word in all that time.”

“I’m happy you picked it up again,” Yaz says. “Sounds like it’s good for you.” 

“Definitely. I like the book tours, too. Gives me a good excuse to get out of the city for a bit. Travelling’s brilliant for the old muse. And for the health. Y’like to travel, Yaz?”

“I love it. Work takes me all over the place. I just… y’know, sometimes it’s better to see the sights with someone at your side.”

“I wholeheartedly agree.” 

Jonah turns their palm up and Yaz slots her fingers through theirs. It’s remarkable how easy it already feels to take Jonah’s hand; how familiar. 

“Never know,” they continue, pulling both their married hands onto their lap, “maybe one day me and you could see some of those sights together. Smith and Khan take the world. Has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”

Amusement dances behind Yaz’s eyes. “First date and you’re already askin’ me to run away with you?” 

“Absolutely. Go big or go home.”

“You might be a total nutter.”

“I am a total nutter. Does that bother you?”

“No. Just makin’ sure.”

As the boat makes a slow U-turn around Liberty Island, Jonah looks past Yaz’s head and begins to blush. Curious, Yaz follows their gaze. The couple beside Yaz are engaged in a shamelessly public display of affection, uncaring of Yaz’s proximity and of the fact that they keep knocking into her shoulder.

Yaz finds it all rather nauseating, but she can tell by the look on Jonah’s face that they’re at least a little bit jealous. 

Intrigued, she cocks her head at them. “You ever write romances?” 

Jonah blinks, averting their focus from the lovebirds and frowning at Yaz as if she’s just stolen them from the clutches of a pleasant daydream. 

“Why d’you ask?”

“You just seem like a bit of a hopeless romantic, is all.”

“Do I? How hopeless?”

“Salvageable.”

“I’ll take it,” accepts Jonah, albeit without enthusiasm. “I don’t tend to write romances, but I always write about love. About how the right kind of love at the right time can save you, or even how the wrong kind of love for the wrong thing can ruin you.”

“The wrong kind of love?” 

“Yeah. But then, that’s not really love. It’s more like obsession. Addiction.” Jonah turns Yaz’s hand over in both of hers as they speak; fidgets with her fingers. “Real love, that’s somethin’ else entirely. And there are so many different kinds. Family. Friends. Pets, obviously. Romance. But self love, too. That’s a big one. An important one. I love love. I love thinkin’ that it’s everywhere, all around us, even when it’s hard to see it.”

Yaz spares another surreptitious glance at the lip-locked lovers beside her, and one corner of her mouth quirks upwards. Jonah watches her watching them. Their fingers curl tighter around hers. 

Yaz studies their entangled hands. “Ever write about people you know?”

“Eh, I try not to. People tend to get offended. Sometimes I do find myself using some of their traits and quirks, though. I mean, you’ve gotta take inspiration from somewhere.”

“So, if you had to write about me in one of your books, how would you describe me?” Yaz inquires. 

Jonah rubs the back of their neck and deliberates. 

“Uh. Look, I know I’m meant to be a wordsmith by trade but, to be honest with you, the only word comin’ to mind right now is lovely. Really, properly lovely.” They chuckle anxiously. “Maybe I _should_ quit my day job, eh?”

Yaz’s whole body warms. Her aching cheeks protest against a smile that just won’t quit. 

“Don’t quit your day job, babe.”

“I—uh, can I ask, do you call everyone babe?”

“Only babes.”

“I’m a babe?”

“A total babe.”

Jonah turns their head away under the guise of watching Lady Liberty pass them by, but Yaz thinks it’s more likely an effort to prevent her from seeing the colour suffusing their cheeks.

“Cool,” they croak. “Super cool.”

Yaz laughs. “Yeah, just like you.”

Jonah adjusts their glasses. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAPPY BDAY ROBINNNN hope u enjoy the last part of ur prezzie sorry the endings kinda rushed u know i was losing my mind by that point x

By the time their feet find solid ground again, dusk is imminent. The lavender sky submits to deeper hues of plum and wine, and Yaz can only make out the setting sun when they cross long, straight avenues, along which its amber glow crawls like spilled honey down the roads and the sides of skyscrapers. 

Expansive buildings flank the streets, as do the lampposts pouring yellow light onto crowds which have only marginally thinned since noon. Traffic moves at a crawl and so do they—much to the vexation, Yaz is sure, of those overtaking them. 

They don’t seem to be walking with much of a destination in mind anymore; they’re just walking. 

Conversation is easy, and it’s so hard for Yaz to mind the plummeting temperature when Jonah won’t let go of her hand. It’s hard to mind anything. She begins to wonder why she’d ever been so afraid of this city in the first place. In Jonah’s company, it scarcely seems daunting at all. 

“...and a packet of custard creams, and the leftover pizza in the fridge, and a peanut butter and jam sandwich. Jam? Jelly? Anyway. Point is, I basically ate everythin’ in the house last night ‘cause I were that nervous.”

“About today?” Yaz asks.

She isn’t sure why, but the hairs on the back of her neck suddenly stand to attention. She feels watched. A hasty scan of the street bears no fruit, so she shakes off her paranoia. 

“Yeah. Been a while since I’ve been on a first date, I’ll admit. And a blind one, at that. Ended up in a food coma half the night, didn’t I? Couldn’t even get up from my sofa to walk Screwdriver. He didn’t half sulk. ‘Til I gave him my sandwich crusts, that is.”

Yaz gives them a look. “You don’t eat your sandwich crusts?”

“Oh, don’t you start. What’s the point of ‘em? You don’t get any filling! It’s all just, like, burned bread. Dry and tasteless and—“ Jonah shivers in disgust— “Ugh. No thanks. Although I did dip ‘em in ketchup once and…”

Jonah trails off and slows to a stop in the middle of the street, earning them a disgruntled huff from the suited man who’d been walking a pace behind them. 

“Yaz,” they drawl, frowning at something in the near distance, “I think those people are takin’ our picture.”

Yaz swivels around. Sure enough, just across the road, there are two men half-crouched behind a parked cab. They both have professional cameras in their hands, and they both are aimed right at Yaz and Jonah. 

“Oh, god,” she sighs, turning her back on them and ducking her head. “I think—I mean, I’m pretty sure they’re for me.”

“Well, they aren’t here for me. Hiya, fellas!” shouts Jonah. They stick their thumbs up and grin at them. 

“Yasmin!” they call back. “Yasmin, who’s your date? Give us a kiss, will you?”

Yaz heaves a sigh. Jonah is still waving at them, and striking ridiculous poses, when she grabs their elbow and drags them toward a narrow side street up ahead. Jonah blows a final kiss at them before they disappear from view. 

“You’re unbelievable,” laughs Yaz, pulling them down the dimly lit alleyway towards the next main street. “Sorry about that. Should’ve warned you it might happen.”

“Nah, it’s not a problem,” Jonah brushes off with an unbothered wave of their hand. “I just hope they got my good side.”

“Which side’s that then?”

Jonah nudges her arm. “You tell me.”

Yaz smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. Jonah must notice. 

“Does that happen to you a lot?” they wonder, as the pair emerge from the ginnel onto a paved street populated, as far as the eye can see, with florists. 

Closest to the road, the sidewalk is fringed with tall plants and short trees which obscure their view of traffic. Encroaching upon the path are a multitude of flower beds, bouquets, and plant pots; they dose Yaz with a perfume both floral and verdant, and splatter the street with pockets of vibrant colour. Yaz hasn’t been to the flower district before—it was just one of the many things on her endless to-do list—but it’s easily distinguished from the rest of the city. 

“Kind of,” Yaz answers, trailing her fingers through the leaves of a thick shrub as they walk. “Happens a lot more since I moved out here. And with this show comin’ up, it’s pretty much every time I leave the house. They usually get me on my way to and from work.” 

“And where do the pictures end up?”

“Everywhere, I guess. Magazines, tabloids, Twitter. I try not to check ‘em, but everyone I know usually sends ‘em to me anyway—wonderin’ if what I’m wearin’ really costs as much as the tabloids are sayin’. God, they caught me mid-sneeze once and I didn’t hear the end of it for, like, a week.”

Jonah furrows their brows. “That sounds pretty exhaustin’.”

“Um. Yeah, actually,” Yaz agrees, somewhat taken aback. 

“Why d’you sound so surprised?”

“‘Cause everyone else usually can’t wait to tell me how lucky I am.”

“A person’s personal life should be private. You shouldn’t have to constantly feel on edge about your whole world ending up on a double page spread.” Jonah shakes their head; they look increasingly more irritated the more they consider it. “Blimey, if the press documented half the stuff I used to get up to…”

“Yeah? Bit of a rebel back in your day, were you?” jokes Yaz. 

“That’s one word for it.”

Jonah tugs Yaz’s hand and they veer left, stepping out of the street and into the flower market. Shelves and crates of fresh bouquets have been arranged to form aisles bisecting the various stalls; Jonah stops to smell almost every single flower. 

Because they’re so easily distracted, it’s laughably easy for Yaz to slip away while their back is turned, discreetly pluck a bouquet from one of the crates, and hand her cash over to the stall owner before Jonah can realise she ever left their side. By the time Yaz returns, Jonah is crouched by a box of potted cacti and experimentally poking a sharp needle with the tip of their index finger. Yaz waits patiently for them to notice her. 

“See, I used to have a cactus at my house, but Screwdriver tried eatin’ it one time and bloody well almost killed himself,” Jonah recalls. They get to their feet with a shake of their head. “Shame, ‘cause they’re a lot easier to keep alive than—“

The instant Jonah turns, their eyes land on the flowers in Yaz’s hands—a bright bunch of red and yellow roses wrapped in brown paper—and the rest of their sentence goes up in smoke. 

Yaz offers the bouquet up. “For you.”

Jonah’s mouth hangs open; their pupils yo-yo between Yaz and the flowers. “You bought me roses?”

“I did. I know they’re a bit of a cliché, but I couldn’t spot any sunflower bouquets,” says Yaz, struggling to read the expression on Jonah’s face. “Um. Are they okay? If you don’t like ‘em, I can get you somethin’ else.”

“You bought me roses,” Jonah repeats under their breath, tentatively accepting Yaz’s ambrosial offering and bringing the flowers to their nose. 

“Yeah. Uh, if I’m not mistaken, I think it’s yellow for friendship and red for… well.” Yaz chuckles and scratches one of her brows. “God, this is really cheesy, isn’t it? I don’t usually do cheesy.”

There are suns in Jonah’s eyes; they burn only for Yaz. 

“Come with me,” they instruct, leaving Yaz no room to argue when they take her hand and pull her through the market, around the corner, and into a vast room which might easily be mistaken for a scene from a fairytale. 

Yaz feels as though she’s entered a fantastical woodland not of Earth. She can’t see the ceiling for the soft pinks, blues, and purples of the foxgloves hanging overhead—some long enough to tickle the top of Jonah’s beanie—and she can’t see the walls for the thick trees and curtains of ivy. Daisies and daffodils, sunflowers and peonies; lavender and tulips line the stone walkway which cuts through the sprawling greenery. It’s a fragrant fragment of paradise. 

Quiet, too. 

There isn’t another soul around when Jonah tows Yaz towards the centre of the room, from which multiple pathways diverge, and stops her by the round flower bed in the heart of the opening. 

Yaz tilts her head back and takes it all in, an awed smile lifting her features. 

“It’s beautiful in here.”

“Yeah,” Jonah agrees, but they’re not looking at the flowers. “A good place to kiss you, I thought.”

Yaz stills. When her gaze descends upon Jonah, she finds them already watching her. Their hazel eyes appear so much darker in the low light; in them, Yaz finds one part apprehension and two parts adoration. They remove the glasses from their face and fold them into their pocket. 

“It’s just, y’know, the flowers were such a lovely gesture,” Jonah carries on, slowly advancing upon Yaz, “and I wanted to offer you a gesture in return.”

The muscles in Yaz’s throat constrict around a sudden clump of nerves. 

“Completely selfless, then?” she strains to say. 

“Thousand percent. I know how much you’ve been dyin’ for it, after all,” cracks Jonah, smirking as if their sole intent is to turn Yaz to dust with their boyish mischief and accidental charm. 

But Yaz won’t let on so easily. 

“Must have me mistaken for somebody else,” she reckons, backing away with a coquettish smile.

“Nah,” refuses Jonah. “How could I ever?”

“Well, you did take your glasses off.”

“And might I say, Miss Khan, that you are the most striking smudge of colour this city has ever seen.” Jonah catches Yaz by the hand and reels her back in—victory dances upon the upcurve of their lips when her breathing audibly stammers. “I’d know you anywhere.”

“Would you know me with your eyes closed?” 

“I’d like to.”

Jonah’s face is less than an inch from Yaz’s. Their every mole and freckle, their laughter lines and dimples; their sharp bones and fair, fair skin are each like markings on a map Yaz feels she’s already committed to memory, like an astronomer knows a map of the stars or a wanderer knows the map that leads them home. 

Yaz drapes her wrists behind Jonah’s neck and says, “You have a really nice face.”

The bouquet in Jonah’s hand rustles when they curl their arms around Yaz’s waist and reply, “So do you, but I think it’d look even better pressed up against mine.”

Yaz nudges her forehead against Jonah’s. “Like this?”

“Almost.” Jonah slots her nose beside Yaz’s. “Just a little bit closer.”

“How about now?” whispers Yaz; her lips hover just shy of Jonah’s and ghost against them when she speaks. They’re breathing the same air, occupying the same space, but it’s nowhere near enough. 

Jonah caves first. 

Cool lips press gently into Yaz’s. They’re just as soft as she knew they would be, just as easy to melt into, but they’re also timid; afraid to ask for more than is offered. 

Their first kiss is chaste and sweet. 

It leaves Yaz wanting more. 

Jonah swallows. Hesitates. Yaz can see how hungry they are for a second helping, because they’re the mirror’s image to her own desire. Why not indulge together? 

“Jonah.”

“Yaz?”

“I’m gonna kiss you properly now, okay?”

Jonah nods dumbly. 

Fingertips tickled by the short hairs at the soft base of Jonah’s skull, Yaz lifts her chin and recaptures their lips. She’s nowhere near as meek as Jonah was and, when she pulls them in by their neck and parts her lips, it pays off. 

The noise Jonah makes sounds a lot like relief. Incentivised by Yaz’s boldness, they wind their arms tighter around her and kiss her with conviction. 

The kiss is sure but never anything less than patient; they take the time to learn one another’s groove and rhythm, and they cherish the rare pocket of warmth created between their lips and leisurely tongues. 

How easy to forget the gruelling winter in the spring freshness of Jonah’s breath; how tempting for Yaz to consider herself cured by the medicine tucked between their taste buds and perfect teeth. Of course Yaz knows the antidote is temporary, just as she knows Jonah is no less a stranger despite how earnestly they kiss her—as if they’ve been waiting lifetimes and not just a day—but it’s bliss to pretend. 

Jonah relocates one of their hands, threading their fingers through the underside of Yaz’s dishevelled bun. When their trimmed nails graze the back of her head, Yaz can’t help but react. 

Her fingertips dig into Jonah’s neck, her thumbs martyr themselves against the blade’s edge of their pronounced cheekbones, and she pours petrol on the flame of their torrid kiss in the hopes that it’ll fuel Jonah further.

It does, but not in the way she expects. 

Jonah moans. 

Were it a subtler thing, it may have been drowned out amidst their heavy breathing and the crackling of tissue paper where Jonah holds too tight to their flowers. Unfortunately, it’s no subtle thing. It rumbles from deep within their chest and rises several pitches on its way up their throat; by the time it pours into Yaz’s mouth, it’s downright indecent. 

Mouths still mashed together, hands still clutching hair and faces, they both freeze in place. Jonah’s skin burns to Yaz’s touch; she doesn’t have to open her eyes to know they’ll be redder than their roses. 

Yaz delicately peels her lips away and clears her throat. 

“Jo—“

“Please don’t say anythin’,” Jonah begs, hiding their scorching face in Yaz’s neck. “Please. I’m sorry. That’s—I’ve never—oh, my god. I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Yaz grins. “Good for the ego, that.”

Jonah whimpers miserably. “That’s bloody _mortifying_. I can’t believe I just did that.”

“Been a while, I take it?”

“You’re lovin’ this too much,” Jonah harrumphs. Finally, they lift their head, but they still refuse to pick their eyes up off the floor. “To be perfectly honest, though, you’re right. It has been a while since I’ve kissed anyone like that.”

“Really?” asks Yaz. She finds that hard to believe. “How long?”

Jonah shrinks into their collar and buries their chin into the front of their hoodie with a cagey shrug. 

“Come on,” Yaz probes gently, pulling Jonah back in by their waist and exerting profuse effort on trying to catch their eye. “I won’t judge. Promise.”

They mumble something, but their words get caught in the fabric of their hoodie and don’t make it to Yaz’s ears. Yaz hooks a finger around the yellow cotton and lowers it, and then she lifts Jonah’s chin with that same finger. 

“Come again?” she prompts. 

“I said…” Jonah puffs their cheeks out petulantly. “Isaidit’sbeenfiveyears.”

Initially, Yaz doesn’t react. The words come out so fast, so jumbled, she can’t be sure she heard them right. She can’t have. Five years is a _long_ time. 

“Sorry?” she gasps.

“Please don’t make me say it again,” whines Jonah, shrinking into themself and eyeing the hanging foxgloves like they’re willing them to grow and twist around their limbs, sweep them up and drag them away; save them from this conversation. 

Yaz still can’t fathom it. “Was it… a personal choice?”

Jonah nods. 

“So, why now?”

“Dunno. I guess I just feel ready now. Readier than I have in a long time,” explains Jonah. For the first time since their kiss, they look Yaz in the eye. “Plus, I could never have let you walk away without a proper kiss. I wouldn’t have been able to live with myself.”

Yaz wants to ask a thousand more questions: why weren’t they ready then, what happened five years ago, what’s changed, did they do something awful, was something awful done to them? 

The silent plea for mercy in Jonah’s eyes ends the interrogation before it begins. 

What Yaz asks instead is, “Was it worth the wait?”

Gratitude for Yaz’s clemency decorates Jonah’s features. 

“Definitely worth it.” 

They’re still a little timorous when they shuffle closer, looking up at Yaz through their lashes with their head hung low. They wrap their hand around one of her fingers and swing it between them. 

“One more?” they entreat with a hopeful lilt. 

“Might wanna pace yourself, babe,” smiles Yaz. “Too much all at once—it might overwhelm you.”

“That’s a risk I’m willin’ to take, if you are.”

“Your funeral.”

Delicately, Jonah cups Yaz’s jaw. Their pupils alternate between her eyes and her mouth as they lean in. Yaz lets them come to her; lets them seek out her lower lip and hold it, for a long moment, between both of their own. They sigh happily. It’s not so much a kiss as it is Jonah blatantly relishing in the sensation of Yaz’s mouth on theirs. 

Leaning their brow against Yaz’s, eyes closed and face awash with serenity, Jonah mumbles a hushed, “Thanks.”

“Satisfied?”

“For now.” Their eyelids flutter open; every sun flecked stroke of their irises twinkles with glee. “Can I ask you a question, Yaz?”

Yaz locks her hands together behind their waist. “‘Course.”

“Do you believe in love at first kiss?”

“Never given it much thought,” says Yaz, parroting their earlier conversation. “Do you?”

Jonah lifts their hand; their thumb hovers before Yaz’s lips as if they’re dying to touch them. In the end, they decide against it and rest their palm flat against her cheek.

“Yeah,” Jonah replies, “I do.”

* * *

Yaz feels as though she’s drifting on a cloud when, hand in hand, they re-emerge from the flower market onto the streets.

The sky is dark but the city is alive: windows burn orange and yellow, gaggles of young people pour out of their complexes to indulge in harmless hedonism and pavement karaoke, restaurants and bars fill fast; their merriment carries out through swinging doors and glass facades, spilling light and music and laughter onto the sidewalk.

It’s not even late—hardly seven—but the setting of the sun lures nocturnal creatures from their redbrick hideaways and they swarm the city en masse. 

So swept up in the after-thrill of kissing Jonah is she, Yaz almost doesn’t hear it when someone calls their name. She only registers it, in the end, because of Jonah’s perplexing reaction. 

They’re walking along an avenue consisting of low rise apartment blocks, closing shops, and a twenty four hour laundromat when it happens. Over the urban hubbub, an unfamiliar voice calls out to them. It gets buried beneath an eruption of high-spirited conversation from a group walking ahead of them. They call out again.

“Jonah! Hey!”

Jonah doesn’t turn; they stop dead. Their hand clamps like a vice around Yaz’s, hard enough to bruise, but Yaz is far more concerned with the miasmic distress rolling off them. 

“Not now,” they whisper, eyes pinched shut.

Yaz looks around for the source of the voice. Sitting on a stoop across the street is a small group of twenty-something boys, skinny and tatty and passing around a joint. The boy on the top step cups his mouth and calls Jonah’s name again; he seems intent on getting their attention. 

“I knew you’d be back!” he shouts in a thick New Jersey accent. “Get over here! I’ve got some shit you’re gonna love!”

Yaz puts her hand on Jonah’s shoulder and peers at their face through a curtain of hair. “Jonah? Who is that?”

Jonah just shakes their head. When they lift their eyes, the consternation in them screams like a siren— _emergency_. _Help me._ They don’t say anything, Yaz doesn’t think they’re able to, but somehow she understands them. They need to get away. 

“Okay,” nods Yaz. “Come on.”

Ignoring Jonah’s sketchy acquaintance, whose hollering follows them down the road, Yaz leads them away with a hand on the small of their back. She tries not to worry too much that Jonah has apparently gone mute; she tries not to worry when their hands start to shake or when they disappear so far inside of themself that Yaz has to physically guide their body to keep them from slamming into people. She _tries_ not to worry, but she fails. 

“Jonah?” Yaz tries for the hundredth time. 

Jonah doesn’t make so much as an acknowledgement of her existence. 

Figuring she needs to get them off the streets and away from the racket and the swarms of people, Yaz steers them towards the next subway entrance they pass; they take the steps down one at a time and follow the fluorescent tunnel into the station. 

The platform is mostly deserted; a train thunders along the rails to the left hand side before disappearing. In its wake, silence falls. 

Their footsteps echo off the tiles and bounce between yellow pillars, exposed pipes; tall ceilings. When they come to a row of metal seats against a white wall stamped with advertisements and route maps, Yaz encourages Jonah to sit with her. 

Jonah slumps heavily onto their chair. Straight away, they start to fidget with the bouquet in their hands and bounce their knee. They haven’t spoken a word in a disquieting amount of time. 

“Are you cold?” Yaz asks when she notices that their hands are still trembling, even though it’s warmer down here than it was outside. “New York’s winters are somethin’ else, aren’t they?”

No reply. 

“I always thought England were bad, but bloody hell. Makes Yorkshire look like Barbados, this place. Meant to snow next week, too. Does Screwdriver like the snow?”

Still no reply.

Yaz wilts. 

On the other side of the platform, across the tracks, a man with long, matted hair and summer clothes slumps on the floor against one of the steel support beams and begins to strum on his guitar. 

Every note he plays sounds lonely and small, struggling to fill the volume of the vast space; to fend off the unnerving quiet inhabiting the shadowy tunnels or the aching silence Jonah bleeds beside her. Yaz does her best to plug the wound. 

“Can you play?” she wonders without expecting an answer. “I took violin lessons when I were in school. Enjoyed it, but I weren’t much good. Better at piano. Still, my parents came to all my recitals. Good of ‘em, considerin’ I must’ve been the worst kid on the stage. Then we’d all go get ice cream. Didn’t matter if it were five degrees or thirty; I always demanded my mint choc chip afterwards.”

Jonah lifts their head a fraction. Yaz holds her breath, but all they proceed to do is watch the melancholy guitarist pluck out his sombre tune. After listening intently to a few verses, their eyes fall closed and they inhale deeply; exhale slowly. 

“Stand by me,” they utter at last.

Yaz narrows her eyes. “What?”

“The first song I ever learned to play on guitar,” Jonah elucidates. Setting their roses down, they reach beneath their glasses to rub their weary eyes, and then they turn to Yaz. “Wilf, the man who adopted me when I were a kid, he _loved_ that song. Used to play the record for me all the time and dance with me in the livin’ room. One year, for his birthday, I bought a guitar and taught myself the song so I could play it for him.”

“Loved?” repeats Yaz, clocking on to Jonah’s use of the past participle.

“Oh, no, he’s still kickin’. Take a lot to keep him down, believe me.” Jonah smiles to themself and pulls their knees up to their chest, thudding the back of their head softly against the wall. “Whenever I feel lonely out here, I just think of him back home, sitting on top of the little hill behind the house with his flask and his telescope and lookin’ up at the same moon I’m lookin’ at. Makes the world feel a little bit smaller. Makes it seem like we aren’t that far apart—‘cause how can we be, y’know, if we’re sharin’ the same sky?”

“You miss him,” Yaz surmises.

“I do. It were his idea for me to run away, though. Always said that place weren’t big enough for me; that I needed to get out there and experience the world. I tried to ask him to leave with me, but I think he’s content where he is. Up in the clouds. Staring at the stars. He told me he’s happy when I’m happy, so I went off on the pursuit of happiness. For him.”

“And did you find it?” Yaz dares to ask. “Happiness, I mean?”

The pensive smile fades like a dying light from Jonah’s face. 

“I’m sorry,” they mumble, “about just now. That—that bloke. I weren’t expecting… I mean, I should’ve thought. He always hangs out ‘round there. I were just havin’ such a good time with you, I didn’t even think. Why didn’t I _bloody_ think?” 

“It’s all right,” assuages Yaz, putting her hand on Jonah’s back. “Who was he?”

Jonah hugs their legs tighter. “Can’t you guess?”

“I’d rather hear you say it.”

“Yeah,” sighs Jonah. “Well, I s’pose you’re gonna find out one way or another. This were fun while it lasted, though. Shame it’s about to come to an end.”

Yaz raises a brow. “How about a bit of faith?”

“I’m not that devout.”

“Jon—“

“My name’s Jonah Smith,” declares Jonah, “and I’m an addict.”

An incoming train rattles the tracks. 

Lights approach; the mechanical cacophony climbs towards its grating crescendo just as Yaz’s hand slips from Jonah’s back. They watch it fall to her lap; acknowledge it with tightly pressed lips and a resigned nod. 

In front of them, the train grinds to a slow halt. A few bored faces peer at them through graffitied windows; commuters depart but none are around to board. 

Jonah eyes the open doors longingly, as if they’re considering making a run for it. 

Yaz doesn’t know the right thing to say. 

“Like I said,” Jonah shrugs, “it’s been fun.”

Their mask of indifference is flimsy at best; Yaz sees the shame weighing heavy on their shoulders, just as she sees the desperation behind their averted eyes. More than that, she gets it. Jonah doesn’t want this to be the end, of course they don’t. 

They want Yaz to stay.

They just want someone to stay. 

“How long have you been clean?” she asks. “‘Cause you are, aren’t you?”

Dropping their boots to the floor, Jonah lifts their hips from the seat and digs around in the front pocket of their trousers. When they pull their hand out, they’re holding a bronze chip. They offer it to Yaz. 

The phrase, ‘To thine own self be true’ is stamped around the border, and three words—unity, service, recovery—form a triangle around the Roman numeral V at the centre of the chip. Yaz brushes her thumb over it. 

“Five years?”

“Five years and a week,” amends Jonah. They lift up their sleeve and bare their tally of five tattoo to Yaz. “Got this done the other day to commemorate it. Added incentive to stay clean, I s’pose, since I’ll only have to get it lasered off if I ever let myself down again. Which I don’t plan to. Ever.”

“Wow,” breathes Yaz. 

“Yep. Heavy stuff.”

“No, I mean…” Yaz places the chip on Jonah’s palm and curls their fingers around it. “I mean congratulations. That’s such a huge achievement; I can’t even imagine how much work it must have taken for you to get here. You should be so proud of yourself, Jonah.”

Jonah stares at Yaz, inscrutable. 

Yaz shifts in her seat. “Why are you lookin’ at me like that?”

“I’m just waitin’ for the other shoe to drop.”

“There is no other shoe.”

“Sure there is. The person you’re on a first date with just told you they’re a drug addict. The other shoe’s in the air.” 

Yaz studies Jonah for a beat. “Do you do this a lot?”

“Do I do what a lot?”

“Get so convinced people won’t wanna stick around that you end up tryna convince ‘em not to?”

“That’s not what’s happenin’.”

“Isn’t it?”

“Look, Yaz, I’m an adult. I can handle the truth. Tell me you’re gonna get the next train home, and tell me I don’t need to bother givin’ you my number, and we can both just move on.”

“Do you want me to go?”

“No.”

“Then I’m not goin’.” 

Yaz returns her hand to Jonah’s back, slipping it beneath their hood and warming her fingertips beneath their collar. Jonah is looking back at her like they just can’t figure her out; like she must be deceiving them somehow. 

“You haven't even heard the whole story,” they note, as if determined to prove that Yaz isn’t as undeterred as she claims to be. 

“Try me.”

Jonah sets their jaw. “I lied. I stole. I used people. I let people use me. I hurt everyone I loved until most of ‘em ended up leavin’ me—and for good reason. I _wasn’t_ a good person, Yaz. Far from it.”

Yaz mulls over Jonah’s revelation. 

“How did it start?” she asks. 

“Sorry?”

“Your addiction. How did it start? What was the reason you started usin’ in the first place?”

“What if I don’t have a good reason for you? What if I was just weak?” Jonah clenches their jaw and leans forward, hands steepled and elbows resting on their knees. “I’m a product of my own mind, Yaz, and my mind doesn’t have an off switch. D’you know what that’s like? To be constantly _on_? Your thoughts are always racin’ and you can never sit still or slow down and you just feel so out of sync with the rest of the world. You feel like you’re goin’ so fast you’re burning out every week, only to pick up the race again the next time the gun goes off—and there’s no way out of this constant cycle. Except, as it turns out, there is a way out. There is an escape. And, out here in glorious NYC, it’s as easy as big-apple pie to get your hands on.”

Yaz brushes a strand of hair out of Jonah’s face. Her other hand rubs small circles over the top of their spine. 

“So, that’s when it started? When you moved out here?”

“Like you said, it’s so vast in New York. It’s so _much._ I just wanted… Christ, I just wanted not to feel the weight of the whole city on my back. I had my publishers goin’ on at me to write but I couldn’t string a bloody sentence together, and I had Wilf back home who thought I were out here doin’ great things when, really, I were just bein’ a waste and doin’ anythin’ I could to procrastinate; to turn the volume down on all my responsibilities. My head was just so full all the time and I’d had enough. I’d just had enough.”

“I can understand that,” empathises Yaz. “You were under a lot of pressure.”

“No more than anyone else.”

“I dunno. Sounds like you put a lot of it on yourself.”

“Could say that,” scoffs Jonah, peeling their beanie off their head and combing a hand through their hair. “First time I tried it were about a year after I moved here. I’d been out on a bender for a couple of days; ended up in some random house with a bunch of total strangers. I remember sittin’ in this dim room upstairs—music thumpin’ through the walls, voices carryin’ up, all that—just watchin’ this fish swim circles in one of those glowin’ tanks. Round and round and round. And I thought, I know how you feel. 

And then there was this girl… I dunno, I can’t even remember her name. High as a kite. Dancing on her own. She offered some to me. At first, I told her I don’t do that kind of thing. I mean, I’d heard how addictive it could be. I was scared. But she looked so blissed out, and I _wanted_ that. So bad. And it’s not like she looked, y’know, dodgy or anythin’. She was just a girl. Pretty, actually. 

I asked her what it felt like and she told me it felt like heaven. She asked me to join her there, so I said yes. Next thing, she’s tying this tube around my arm and… to be honest, I didn’t even see the needle go in. She kissed me through it. Kiss of bloody death. 

Pretty much straight away, I was overtaken by this insane rush of euphoria. God, I can’t even describe it. I felt like I was in a dream world. Everythin’ was just so calm and safe and warm. This girl on my lap, I was convinced I loved her; convinced she loved me. I’d only met her that night. We didn’t do anythin’, I don’t think. Just kinda stared at one another, touched each other. I remember I kept runnin’ my finger up and down her arm ‘cause, for some reason, it felt incredible. 

It’s all a bit hazy after that. The only thing I remember vividly is the feelin’. My head had never been so quiet; I’d never been so relaxed. Body. Mind. Right down to the fuckin’ soul of me. It was just like she said. Heaven.”

The yearning underscoring Jonah’s detailed account makes Yaz fret that they’re treading dangerous waters. She does her best to steer them from veneration. 

“But it’s not heaven for long, I take it?” she presumes.

Absently toying with the label of their beanie, Jonah shakes their head. 

“No. Not for long. It were all downhill after that. I thought I could manage it, y’know? Thought if I could control my dose, discipline myself, I’d be fine. I told myself I’d take just enough to numb the world without turning into a zombie, and I’d only take it when I needed it. But, somethin’ like that, your brain’s always gonna come up with reasons why you need it.

I won’t bore you with the details, but it got really bad really fast. Lost a lot of friends. Got dumped by my publisher at the time. Let down a lot of people. Wilf were worried sick—he knew somethin’ were up when I stopped callin’. I were even homeless for a while.”

“Shit,” mutters Yaz. “Like, on the streets?”

“I mostly couch surfed, but there comes a time when people get sick of helpin’ the junkie who refuses to even help themself, so… yeah. Park benches. Underpasses. Couple of shelters, when they weren’t full. Worst nights of my life.”

Yaz’s chest hurts to picture Jonah huddled up beneath an old, dirty blanket in a damp tunnel somewhere, shivering because they can’t get warm, crying because they’re all alone; shooting up just to dull the pain. 

“God, I never would have guessed any of this,” confesses Yaz. “I mean, lookin’ at you now, you’re so…”

“Yellow?” Jonah chuckles dolefully. “Happiness wasn’t effortless for me either, Yaz. I don’t think it’s effortless for anyone. But, to answer your earlier question, I did find it. I have it now, and you better believe I’m holdin’ onto it for dear life.”

“But, how? I mean, how did you go from that to this?”

Jonah leans into Yaz and, as if they’re trading gossip at the back of the classroom, whispers, “I met a boy.”

“You met a boy?”

“The most handsome boy there ever was.” 

“Should I be jealous?”

“Maybe a little bit,” grins Jonah (but Yaz is just happy they’re smiling again). “Little over five years ago, I were wanderin’ the streets in the small hours of the mornin’ after getting wasted all night. At the time, I were actually livin’ in this studio apartment that belonged to an old mate who’d left town for a few months, but I were that high I couldn’t even find my way. 

Gave up, in the end, and just found the closest alleyway to slum it in. I were just about to pass out behind the bins when I heard this noise; this low whine comin’ from behind a stack of soggy boxes. Hauled myself up, went to investigate, and guess what I found?”

“Did it have four legs and a tail?” 

“Ten points to Yasmin Khan,” Jonah awards. “Granted, he didn’t look anythin’ like he does now. I moved the boxes aside and there he was—this shiverin’, skinny little thing with filthy fur and scabs all over him. He were that weak he couldn’t even get up. Must’ve been absolutely starvin’, ‘cause he’d gnawed the handle right off this rusty screwdriver. Oh, Yaz, my heart when I saw him. It was like…like…”

“Love at first sight,” finishes Yaz. 

“How could it not be? I mean, look. Just look.” Jonah fishes their phones out of their pocket and pulls up a photo album dedicated entirely to their dog. 

Yaz accepts the phone and swipes through the pictures. Screwdriver, it transpires, is a golden retriever; by all means a healthy, happy looking dog with long, silky hair and a smile as cheeky as Jonah’s. There are pictures of him running in the park, sleeping on Jonah’s lap; dressed up in ridiculous costumes; kissing Jonah’s laughing face. 

One of Yaz’s instant favourites is a picture someone else took of the two of them. It looks like they’re in Roger’s bookshop: the hearth is burning, Screwdriver is sleeping in front of the fire, and Jonah sits on the floor beside him, propped up against the foot of the armchair with a book in their hand. 

The image solaces Yaz through and through. 

“He’s gorgeous,” she says. “Bet you make a right pair.”

“He’s my best mate,” Jonah reveals. When Yaz hands the phone back, they continue to swipe through their photos as they talk. “That mornin’, when I found him, I sat with him in the alleyway for a while ‘til he trusted me enough to handle him—and ‘til I’d sobered up a bit—and then I bundled him up in my arms and carried him back to the flat. Look, this is how he looked back then.”

Jonah shows Yaz a picture of Screwdriver which must have been taken right after they found him; just as they said, he’s dirty, timid-looking; his hair is matted and clumps are missing, and there are cuts and small wounds all over his body. 

Yaz winces. “Did you find out what happened to him?”

“Nah. He hadn’t been chipped—weren’t compulsory at the time. ‘Course, even before I took him to the vets to find out, I secretly hoped there wouldn’t be anyone waitin’ to claim him. I know it’s selfish, and I can’t describe it, but when I looked into his little eyes it were like he was begging me to keep him. 

When I got in, I washed him up as best I could and fed him with whatever bits we had in the house. Weren’t much, to be fair. I spent a lot more money on drugs than food back then, but I felt really bad about it so I ran down to the shop over the road to get some dog food. By the time I got back, I were really feelin’ the comedown. Y’know, just sluggish and exhausted and shaky. I managed to feed him, but I needed to crash. 

Weird thing was, it were almost like he sensed it. Like he knew. He stopped eatin’ his kibble to nuzzle his head into my hand, and he didn’t stop ‘til I got myself to bed. Then he climbed right in after me. 

And I lay there with this little guy curled up on my chest, and I looked at him, and my first thought was, I’m gonna take care of you. My next thought was, and that means I’m gonna have to take care of myself. It were terrifyin’. I’d been this way for years—not carin’ where I ended up, or if I lived or died. Just gettin’ by from one high to the next. 

But suddenly I had this whole other life depending on me. I couldn’t pass him off to anyone else; it were too late. Screwdriver were mine the moment I found him. So, I needed to get my shit together. 

Flushed all my gear that day. Took him to the vets; had him checked over. Bought a bed and some toys and a tonne of dog food, and then I bought a typewriter, too. We got home, and he slept, and I started writin’ for the first time in years. I wrote about what I’d been through; the things I’d done and the things I’d seen. It were the first time I’d ever written anythin’ but fiction, but it were the story I felt I needed to tell.”

Yaz recalls the book Jonah had been so resistant for her to read, and suddenly she understands. Yaz can’t imagine wanting Jonah to read a book full of her worst days and fatal flaws on their first date either. 

“‘Course, then the withdrawal hit,” grouses Jonah. “God, I got so ill. There were times I thought I were gonna die. Times I thought about callin’ my dealer and puttin’ an end to the pain. But one look at Screwdriver’s little mug and I knew that weren’t happenin’.

Through it all, he were right by my side. I swear, this dog has some kinda sixth sense. Durin’ some of my worst lows, he always seems to know where my head’s at. He’ll plod up to me and he’ll give me kisses or nuzzle me, like he’s tryna cheer me up, or he’ll come over with his leash in his gob or even my phone if I’m in a proper bad state.”

“Wait,” frowns Yaz, “is he a service dog?”

“Well, I’m not blind, so—“

“No, not that kinda service dog. Some of ‘em are trained to help people with, like, mental health issues. How old were he when you found him?”

“Vets reckoned about two,” Jonah discloses, brows drawn thoughtfully. “But he’s not—he’s just Screwdriver. He’s just a natural at that stuff.”

“Babe, that dog’s been trained to bring over a phone in a crisis, predict when you’re about to crash, and cheer you up when you’re down. You seriously think he just picked all that stuff up on his own?”

Jonah lowers their phone and stares off into the distance; watching realisation claim them is like watching a thick fog lift from a mountaintop. 

“Oh…” They slap their forehead. “Oh! He’s a _service dog_ . Bloody hell, he’s _my_ service dog. God, that makes so much sense! How didn’t I realise sooner? Oh, I’m so thick. I just thought he were some kinda super empathetic dog. All this time… maybe I should up his biscuit allowance, eh? Pay him for the job he’s qualified for.”

Yaz hums. “Funny how fate seems to work around you.”

“What d’you mean?”

“Screwdriver, a literal service dog, showed up in your life exactly when you both were in need of savin’, and you don’t think that’s odd?”

Jonah smiles with all their teeth. “Fate’s a friend of mine.”

“Oh?”

“How else would you explain the two of us meetin’ by chance this mornin’? I mean, out of all the people in this city, and it’s you I bumped into. I’m tellin’ you, we were bein’ nudged together. Invisible strings. A cosmic plan. Call it what you will, but I reckon I’d have ended up sittin’ right here with you whether Ryan had introduced us or not. Me and you, Yaz? We were inevitable.”

“You believe that?”

“With my whole being.”

“You changed your tune,” remarks Yaz. “What, you don’t still think I’m gonna bolt?”

“I think, the whole time I were tellin’ that story, you didn’t once shy away from the ugly bits. I think you kept your hand on my back, and I think you’re the first person outside of a meetin’ I’ve been able to talk to like this in forever. Plus—“ they dig their elbow into Yaz’s ribs— “I can tell you fancy me way too much to scarper off now.”

Laughing incredulously, Yaz lightly shoves Jonah and shakes her head. “Don’t push it.”

Jonah quirks a brow. “Or what?”

“Or the only other kisses you’ll be gettin’ tonight will be from Screwdriver.”

Pretending to be affronted, Jonah clutches their chest. “You’d really withhold your sugar from me? When you _know_ how much of a sweet tooth I’ve got?”

“Think of your arteries, babe.”

“Sod my arteries. I’ll clog ‘em all with you ‘til my heart gives out.”

“Nothin’ says romantic like a heart attack.”

“It’s no bunch of roses, is it?” agrees Jonah, picking up their bouquet and sliding a yellow rose from the paper. 

They twirl the stem between their fingers; the pirouetting flower is reflected twofold in their glasses. Its golden petals, spread wide, flourish like the gown of a debutante sweeping across the ballroom floor. 

“Thanks for hearin’ me out, Yaz,” says Jonah. “It feels good. Like a relief. Not everyone reacts like you. Scares people, y’know?”

“Is that why you haven’t been datin’ for the past five years?”

“Honestly, Yaz, I haven’t been seein’ much of anyone for the past five years. I go to the park, and I go to the bookshop, and I go home. I just figure it’s easier, that way, to avoid temptation. And to avoid judgement.”

Jonah strokes the head of the rose, and then they yank it from the stem. The decapitated bloom sits pretty on their open palm. 

“But then I got my five year chip,” they plough on, “and I decided it were time to get back out there. Aside from those book tours I mentioned, I’d hardly done any of the things I promised myself I would out here. Guess you could say I’m workin’ through a bucket list.”

“And what’s on your list?” 

“I can tell you one thing on my list,” Jonah offers, fixing the head of the rose to the hair behind Yaz’s ear and beaming at her. “Findin’ my soulmate.”

“Ambitious,” Yaz says. The shell of her ear tingles where Jonah’s fingers brushed it. All she smells is roses. 

“D’you think so? ‘Cause, from where I’m sittin’, it looks like yellow really, really suits you.”

Yaz touches a finger to the flower in her hair. The petals are waxy smooth—reminiscent of chapstick kisses and just as easy to crush between her fingers as Jonah’s lips were to crush against hers. She leaves them be. 

On the opposite platform, the guitarist takes a break from playing to tie his hair back. Yaz has an idea.

“Come on,” she says, getting to her feet and motioning for Jonah to follow.

“Where we off?”

In lieu of an answer, Yaz takes their hand, drags them to their feet, and then proceeds to lead them towards the edge of the platform. She peers down at the tracks. It’s not a massive drop, nor does it sound like there are any trains coming. 

“Uh, Yaz?”

Jonah is obviously still trying to ascertain Yaz’s intentions by the time she drops Jonah’s hand, sits down on the ledge, and pushes off.

“Yaz!” hisses Jonah, glancing clandestinely over their shoulder. “What are you playin’ at?”

Landing by the tracks, Yaz cranes her neck to seek out Jonah’s concerned face. “No risk, no reward, right?” She offers her hand. “Come on. Before a train comes.”

“You’re mad,” accuses Jonah.

Nevertheless, they heed Yaz’s instruction and lower themself onto the platoform’s edge. Yaz helps them down onto the tracks. 

“Y’know, I like you, Yaz,” they huff when they thud to the ground beside her, “but a suicide pact isn’t quite how I saw this date endin’. Or a joint arrest, for that matter. Guess sharin’ the same cell could lead to some quality bondin’ time, though.”

Yaz laughs as they pick their way across the tracks. “Don’t be such a baby. Here, I’ll give you a leg up.”

“No, you absolutely will not.” Jonah crouches down and makes a foothold with their hands. “Ladies first.”

“And they say chivalry’s dead,” Yaz quips, holding onto Jonah’s shoulder with one hand and using their cupped hands to lift off the ground and climb onto the platform.

Jonah helps push her up the rest of the way with a hand on her backside. “Chivalry’s got nowt to do with it.”

“Cheeky bastard.”

“You’re learnin’.”

Kneeling on the platform, Yaz offers Jonah her hand and hauls them up alongside her with a grunt. They both get to their feet, brush off their knees and palms, and straighten up. Fortunately, the only person around to witness them is the guitarist, who hardly seems fazed. 

“Oh, yeah, _much_ better over here,” Jonah scoffs. “Front row view of the graffiti in that tunnel. Suspicious puddle over there on the tiles. Good call riskin’ our lives, Yaz.”

Ignoring Jonah’s sarcastic remarks, Yaz slips her purse out of her pocket and approaches the guitarist. While Jonah watches on, curious, Yaz offers him a generous wad of cash and whispers a request. He declines the money but agrees to the request. 

Jonah squints at her when she returns. “What’re you up to?”

Yaz holds a finger to their lips and they cross their eyes to gawp at it. When the guitarist begins to play, Jonah’s pupils flit to the side; they listen intently to the first handful of notes. 

Once the song begins to take shape in the air around them, Jonah’s eyes go wide with recognition. A gleeful grin forms behind Yaz’s index finger. 

Jonah nods their head along to the beat, waits for the cue, and then begins to sing playfully along.

“When the night,” they begin, taking Yaz’s hand and twirling her on the spot, “has come, and the land is dark…”

While not serious, their voice adopts a low, husky quality when they sing, which sends Yaz’s heart into a tizzy—even more so when they clasp her hand, hold her by the waist, and lead her in a clumsy, exuberant dance in the middle of the platform. 

“And the moon is the only light we’ll see. No, I won’t be afraid…” 

They’re dancing cheek to cheek; Jonah’s lips graze Yaz’s ear as they serenade her in time to the guitarist’s skilful accompaniment. 

“Oh, I won’t be afraid, just as long as you stand…” Their voice drops to a whisper. “Stand by me.”

The chorus arrives and Jonah gives Yaz another lively whirl before pressing into her back, wrapping their arms around her, and rocking side to side with their chin resting on her shoulder. 

Nowhere in the city has Yaz ever fit so well than the space between Jonah’s ribs and elbows. Their bones might as well be her bones; might as well be an extension of her own anatomy. She doesn’t think it’s usual to think such things after spending so short an amount of time with somebody, but maybe that’s what makes Jonah special: the way they burrow beneath her skin, the way they fall through the frozen lake of her and drift in her cold ocean; the way the water turns tepid and then tropic around them. 

“So, Yaz,” Jonah mumbles, “have I managed to shift your perspective of New York at all?”

“Definitely,” says Yaz. 

“I’m glad. S’pose that’s all it takes, sometimes, isn’t it? A hand to hold. Someone to pull you along ‘til you find your feet.” 

Jonah moves their hands to Yaz’s hips, buries their fingertips in the dark bristles of her coat, and strokes their thumbs over her ribs. 

“There’s so many more things I could show you, y’know, if you’re ever lookin’ for a reason to leave your apartment,” Jonah continues. “Nobody should ever hide away from a world so beautiful, Yaz. Nobody so beautiful should ever hide away from the world. It’s a genuine crime.”

“I could say the same for you.”

Yaz turns around in Jonah’s hold and winds her arms around their neck. They look at one other. They see one other—for their darknesses, for their light, for the tomorrows they both could bring. 

They dance until the song ends. Softly, softly. No more dramatic twirls or twists or dips; just two people swaying to a sentiment unsung.

Stand by me. 

Once the final note has been strummed, it lingers in the air and rings on and on in Yaz’s ears. She’d like to put it in her pocket and take it home. She’d like to hang it from her neck like a pendant; tuck it beneath her shirt where it could beat beside her heart. 

“Yaz,” Jonah whispers beside Yaz’s ear, “can I ask you a question?”

“‘Course.”

“Do you believe in love at first dance?”

“Y’know, I’ve never really given it much thought,” says Yaz. “Do you?”

Jonah peels back, studies Yaz; smooths a finger over one of her brows. 

“Yeah,” they drawl, “I do.”

* * *

When it transpires that the two of them live but a single subway stop apart (fate working in their favour once again), they board the same train and head for home. 

Their carriage is empty. One of the lights flickers. They each hang from opposite sides of a metal pole and follow one another round and round, smiling shyly and catching one another’s eye intermittently. 

Yaz took her gloves off earlier and never put them back on, and so every time Jonah’s fingers slide across the pole, they graze her own. Jonah’s skin is cold enough to burn. Idly, Yaz thinks about the scorch marks they’d leave behind on her neck, her stomach, her back, her tongue, her thighs. 

“What’re you thinkin’ about?” Jonah asks. Their tone implies they know very well. 

Yaz won’t give them the satisfaction. She ducks her head and keeps chasing Jonah, without intent, in circles around the pole. 

“Thinkin’ about how I’ve had the best day,” she replies. “Y’know, my plan were to indulge you for an hour and then make some excuse to leave. My hopes weren’t very high. But then I met you.”

“Blew you away, did I?”

“Somethin’ like that.”

Jonah glances at the bouquet poking out of the half-zipped backpack they left on one of the seats. “I’m happy you stayed, Yaz. No one’s bought me flowers in a very long time—I’d forgotten what it feels like. I’d forgotten that it was even the kind of thing I wanted, back when I used to want things for myself. Mad, isn’t it?”

“What?”

“How fast we adapt to life without kindness.” Jonah stops; turns so abruptly Yaz almost collides with them. “I don’t think we deserve it, do you? How cruel we can be to ourselves? We’re not bad people. We’re not.”

Yaz can’t tell who they’re so desperate to convince. 

“We’re not bad people,” she affirms. “Those things you want for yourself, Jonah? You’re allowed to want ‘em. More than that, you’re allowed to act on ‘em. Wanting doesn’t make you selfish, it makes you alive. So, live. Grab what you need by the collar and—“

Jonah grabs Yaz by the collar and kisses her. 

Yaz’s startled gasp punctuates the impatient gesture but—before Jonah can pull away, can backtrack; can apologise for wanting the things they want—she fists her hands in their jacket and kisses them back. 

Jonah takes charge of the kiss this time, and it’s exactly what Yaz has been waiting for: for Jonah to take the leap they’ve been threatening all day. 

Ravenous as she, Jonah backs Yaz up against the pole. Their hands are on her face, and then her hips, and then they’re carving a slow path towards her backside. Yaz purrs when Jonah squeezes. She digs her fingers into their hips without restraint and yanks them close enough that their lonely hearts might whisper their secrets to one another between every rapid beat. Yaz cares to hear them another time. 

Far more pressing right now is the rawness of Yaz’s lips, the texture of Jonah’s tongue, and how, between both those things, the concept of time is pulverised to a fine mist. 

Yaz has known Jonah for a day. Yaz has known Jonah all her life. Yaz has known Jonah before, in another world and another time. Maybe one of these things is true. Maybe they all are. The point is, it doesn’t matter. 

They found one another here, now, and it feels less like a first meeting than a reunion.

An, I’ve missed you. An, I’ve been waiting up for you. An, I already know my way around your kitchen and the way you take your tea so put up your feet, forget that we’re strangers, and tell me how you’ve been since the last time. 

There’s a lot to catch up on, but a kiss is a good place to start. 

Yaz acquaints herself with the silk of Jonah’s hair at her fingers, learns every note of a melody composed of their hums and grunts and sighs; surrenders to their bold tongue and bolder hands. 

Jonah’s firmness is exhilarating to submit to when they’ve been so unassertive all day, like watching a young lion make its first kill. One thing’s for sure: they’re a cub no more. Yaz is only too happy to be the fresh blood between their teeth. 

By the time the kiss ends—which it only does because the train is slowing to a stop—Yaz is breathless and drunk on rapture.

Thunderbolts crackling behind Jonah’s wide eyes tell Yaz they’re feeling all the same things as she is. They lick their pleasure-swollen lips and shake their head; Yaz entertains a fantasy about kissing their hooded eyelids, before letting it melt through the floor at their feet. 

“Woah,” they heave. “Yaz, I—“

“I know.”

Jonah gauges Yaz with pupils wide and alert enough that Yaz believes they’re seeing right past the hard cover of her skull to the pulp upon which is written all of her secrets and all of her dreams, all of her nightmares and all of her flaws, and all of the blank pages reserved just for them. 

“Yeah,” nods Jonah, “you know.”

The kiss, Yaz notes, has left their glasses skewed and foggy. She slides them off Jonah’s nose, cleans them on her shirt, and slots them back on. Jonah watches her. Speechless. 

Through the windows, the high-speed blur begins to take the shape of another subway platform. Lights and tiles and faces pass them by as they pull in. 

“Your stop, isn’t it?” says Yaz. 

She wishes it weren’t; wishes this train would start up again and never stop moving. There’s too much left unsaid and too much left undone and if they followed the tracks around the word five times over, there would still be too much left unsaid and there would still be too much left undone. 

“Oh. Right.” Still reeling, Jonah takes a dazed step back. “Um. It’s weird, I can’t… I don’t…”

“I know,” repeats Yaz. “Me, too.”

Jonah purses their lips and draws away to retrieve their backpack. They pull out the Polaroid Yaz took of them at the museum and a pen; Yaz watches them scribble their number onto the back of it before handing it over. 

“I hope you call,” they say.

“You know I will.”

The doors in the carriage hiss open. They both regard them glumly. Jonah squeezes Yaz’s hand.

“Soon,” they say instead of goodbye.

Yaz squeezes their hand right back. “Really soon.”

They let go. 

Yaz follows Jonah to the door. They turn to her, open their mouth, and then close it again. Too much to say. Not enough time. Jonah steps onto the platform. 

It doesn’t feel right to Yaz that they should end it here—like leaving a sentence unfinished or a painting half done—but this is Jonah’s stop, and they got off the train. She supposes they’ll just have to pick up their sentence and dip their brushes back into their buckets another time. 

“Well,” says Jonah. They look a little lost. “See you, Yaz.”

“See you, Jonah.”

Yaz smiles at them one last time. Jonah’s face is a plea Yaz doesn’t know how to answer. With a heavy heart, she turns her back. 

When she returns to the carriage, she hears the doors slide shut again in her wake. Sighing, she plucks the rose from behind her ear and brushes her thumb over the puckered edges of the petals. Yaz sees it differently now, the colour yellow; she can’t imagine ever seeing it the same way again. 

A voice behind Yaz makes her jump.

“The thing is, I’m not ready to go just yet.”

As the train pulls away from the station, Yaz pivots on her heels to find Jonah striding towards her. 

“Jonah?”

“Listen, I’ll only spend the whole night lyin’ awake and thinkin’ of you anyway if I go home now.” Jonah puts their hands on her shoulders. “The night is young and the world is our oyster, Yasmin Khan. We’re in the city that never sleeps! Why should we?”

Baffled, Yaz can only think to laugh. “What about your dog?”

“My mate’s lookin’ after him. They won’t mind.”

“I—but—“

“There’s a play. A late showin’. Actually, it’s an adaptation of a book I wrote. I weren’t gonna go, ‘cause I don’t usually like goin’ to those things alone, but maybe you could come? And if that’s not your cup of tea, they’re screenin’ an old horror movie in an abandoned railway station at midnight. Christ, Yaz, we can just ride the subway ‘til the sun comes up and talk. It doesn’t matter to me. I just wanna spend more time with you. I might be wrong, but I think you feel the same way. Right? Oh, please let me be right. I’ll be so embarrassed if I’m wrong.”

“You’re not wrong,” confesses Yaz. She’s grinning—ear to ear, like she hasn’t done in ages. “God, Jonah, I’m so glad you’re you.”

Jonah starts to laugh, and Yaz starts to laugh, and then they’re hugging. Yaz’s feet leave the ground when Jonah lifts her; she wraps her legs around their waist; smiles into their neck. Jonah was right—they’re an excellent hugger. 

They kiss again, and they laugh some more, and Jonah holds Yaz close to their chest like a secret. 

And then, with the tips of their noses kissing, Jonah sighs adoringly and says, “Yaz, can I ask you a question?”

“Ask.”

Jonah hesitates.

“Do you believe in soulmates?”

Yaz doesn’t hesitate for a second. 

“Yeah,” she answers, “I do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank u for reading everyoneee hope u enjoyed i’m not too happy with this chapter but :-( my brain stopped working sorryyyyy
> 
> find me on tumblr: freefallthirteen


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